The Wagons Move Out, Chapter 2

The sight of a large train of empty wagons snaking across the prairie stays with a person. But maybe the sounds it makes leaves the bigger impression. Whips snapping, skinners cursing, steers bawling, chains rattling, and the dull thud of wheels dropping into badger holes all add to the clamor and disorder of the scene. Sometimes aligned in single file, sometimes two abreast, we needed to roll with a steady pace to cover distance with the plodding oxen.

For some reason, the outfit’s owner, Stevenson, didn’t come on this trip. On other trips he could be seen in his light buggy running back and forth along our line or driving on up ahead to check on the route. But for this trip he named Abel Finney his wagon boss, someone who none of us took a cotton to. We called him “Un-Able” because he always seemed to act recklessly without thinking much. But he’s the one giving the orders that we had to follow, and our suspicions of him were to prove correct.

Everyone had ready access to a rifle since the threat of an Indian attack accompanied us all day, every day, even visiting us in our dreams. The news had reached us of the so-called Wagon Box Fight that occurred a short while ago where a couple dozen soldiers were attacked by hundreds of Lakota in Wyoming. Most of the surrounded survived, but only because they possessed lever-action Winchester rifles and had really poured the lead into the Indians who shot mostly bows and arrows. No one with us had that kind of firearm, but this crew was a rugged, lusty bunch that could take plenty of punishment and hand it back. 

Pigeon Point was our overnight destination on the way back to St. Cloud, and we would’ve had the choice of two trails to get there. For some reason “Un-Able” steered us to the longer route called the High Water Trail. On it, we’d have to go round the big bend of the Sheyenne River going past Okiedan Butte. That caused some grumbling because it would take longer, but we soldiered on. We had plenty of time now to get lost in our own thoughts, and I called to mind one of the soldiers grabbing an old St. Cloud newspaper rolled up and stuck in the side of my wagon box. His eyes settled on an article headlined “Impeachment.” It was something about President Johnson catching guff for reckless violation of the Constitution and they wanted to throw him out of office. I wonder what happened.

The light rain a few days ago had frozen on the prairie and turned to a crusted glaze that glittered in the sun. The countryside rolled away on gentle hills and made for easy going. We saw lots of wildlife; maybe some venison would find its way into our cooking pots. But now something captured our attention. That dark bank of clouds rising from the western horizon became more threatening and what was a gentle breeze began to blow harder. The temperature started dropping and any of us who’d been on the prairie before when a blizzard blew up became very concerned we’d be caught without shelter. 

Un-Able didn’t seem to notice, and since he seemed to be in such a sour mood from making a lousy choice of route, no one approached him. We kept rolling along in our southeasterly direction to get around the big bend of the river. Soon we had no choice but to stop.

Next chapter - Stalled 

Time to Get Serious

Christmas is over and time to get serious!

Under the Christmas tree these two lovelies sat waiting to be opened and read - “Washington: A Life” by Ron Chernow and “Sailing True North: Ten Admirals and the Voyage of Character” by Admiral James Stavridis. Washington’s book is door-stopper in size but promises to yield much about the man. Reviews of the book rate it a top notch biography. In the first few pages, I realized a strong connection existed between it and the book by Stavridis because they identified the same character traits in the men they write about. 

While Chernow writes about one man, Stavridis looks at ten admirals throughout history who possessed strong credentials. He begins with Themistocles who excelled in the power of persuasion. It bore fruit in Greece where he convinced the country to build a fleet of warships which he then led to victory against the invading Persians and saved Athenium democracy, something which we revere today.

Chernow promises a complete picture of Washington, a man who has “receded so much in our collective memory.” Beyond being first president, legend has him chopping down a cherry tree. Besides crossing the Potomac, what else do we know? I hope to find a complete picture of the man.

AND, a $30 Barnes and Noble gift card under the same tree let me buy Timothy Egan’s “A Pilgrimage to Eternity.” I’ve met Egan, found him to be a well-grounded person, and read some of his work. In this book, after questioning his faith, what he calls “lapsed but listening,” he undertakes a pilgrimage looking for answers. My tendency toward the agnostic will travel along with Egan to look for some answers.

The Story of a Stranded Wagon Train

In our grandparents day serialized stories ran in the newspapers and provided reading pleasure for many. Pay a visit to the state archive library in Bismarck where you can read them in the microfilms of old newspapers. Since we’ve already experienced too much snowy weather this year, a story came to mind of another winter when a three-day blizzard trapped a slow-moving wagon train near present day Lisbon. It is December, 1867, and it will take a few issues of this newspaper to tell it.

The Story of a Stranded Wagon Train, Chapter One

We always start rolling early, as long as it isn’t snowing sideways like it does sometimes. Ox teams don’t cover much ground in a day, so we get them hitched up and start making those leather bullwhips pop.  It was a brittle December morning that made thick clouds of steam rise from their backs.

Today we headed east from Fort Ransom with an ox train of forty empty wagons. After they’d finished building the fort, their warehouse stood bare and needed stocking with supplies. The owner of our outfit, Don Stevenson, held a government contract to transport goods to the new fort. We’d come all the way from the Mississippi docks at St. Cloud where we’d loaded forty covered wagons with freight a few days ago. We hauled blankets, pots and pans, towels, flour sacks, sugar sacks, bags of dried beans, cases of canned peaches, ammunition, firearms and plenty more odds and ends I can’t even remember. 

Since the frontier kept edging westward, Fort Ransom had sprung up to protect settlers, gold miners, and railroad construction crews from Indian attacks. They named it after some Civil War general who nobody seemed to know much about, but Grant and Sherman thought he deserved the honor. Word was about two hundred men would live and patrol from here. It seemed like a nice location with access to a plentiful supply of spring water.

At any rate, it was good to get moving again. We’d had plenty of time to make repairs on our wagons and rest up. Besides everyone was getting restless and sick of the squabbling with the soldiers. It might not have been long until gunfire would start and somebody’d get hurt. Did I say we hauled cases of whisky to the sutler. Well, those bored troopers got into it. A lot of those uniformed men were what they called galvanized Yankees, in other words turncoat Southerners who’d been in Northern prison camps and thought maybe the Northern army wasn’t so bad because they seemed to eat pretty regular.

Our drovers are a mixed lot - Metis, freed slaves, even some Irishmen who couldn’t find work anywhere else, plus a couple like me who don’t know where they belong. Stevenson, the fellow who owns the outfit, he’s a Scotchman. At nighttime around their campfires, they separate into tight little birds of a feather groups. The wagon boss is big and strong and keeps a tight rein on the outfit, so even if the men don’t get along, they mind their manners because they don’t want to face him after he lays down his law.

It’s a good thing the boss has never tried to tone down our language. I think my mama would faint if she heard just a couple minutes of what came out of the mouths of these vulgar old bullwhackers. When I was still home she tried to raise me up right, and if I ever slipped a cuss word out, she’d scream blasphemy and shove a bar of soap in my mouth. All her efforts have gone to naught because this outfit’s salty language has rubbed off on me, and I can cuss with the best of them. 

In the next installment, Chapter Two -  the wagons move out.

Unlimited Expansion?

I just finished reading the ex-British spy John Le Carre’s latest book, Agent Running in the Field. I can’t forget something he said once: “If we go on believing that there is unlimited expansion in a limited globe, I think we are heading for destruction. The globe will survive but mankind won’t.” I couldn’t help but be reminded of my Scandinavian history when farms passed in the family to the oldest son. What options did the younger sons have? Maybe emigrating to the U. S. where the promise of free land drew some, but our land has filled up and is not free anymore. People are still on the move around this globe because of famine, drought, political unrest, invasion from neighbors, et cetera. Unfortunately, resources are limited, and in many cases nonexistent. The myths and legends of the Vikings say they sailed away in their long boats and seized what they wanted.

Propaganda

Long ago in my social studies and journalism classes, I kept running into a list of propaganda techniques that are foisted on us in a steady diet. In these congressional hearings of late I recognize several, if not all of them, being used:

1. Bandwagon

2. Card stacking

3. Plain folk

4. Testimonial

5. Glittering generalities

6. Namecalling

7. Transfer

Those are the ones I remember learning about, but here’s another list where the points are no less recognizable:

1. Ad nauseum = I’m sick of hearing it

2. Ad hominem = genuine discussion of the topic at hand is avoided by instead attacking the character, motive, or other attribute of the person making the argument

3. Appeal to authority

4. Appeal to fear

5. Appeal to prejudice

6. Bandwagon

7. Inevitable victory

8. Join the crowd

9. Beautiful people

Recognize any? And like the old drunk says, "It's enough to want me to take another drink."

A Limerick for Today

A limerick for today from an old cowboy carved 30 years ago who keeps mindful of the political scene.

At first I thought his mind was clear

But after watching, I thought, Oh dear

I was mistaken

Cuz he’d been takin’

Too many selfies from a mirror.

A Well-Developed Imagination

My mother always said I was born a hundred years too late. However I’m most content to live right where I’m at. When I want to walk in the old days and participate in some event, all I need do is open a book and find myself right in the thick of it. Yes, it takes some imagination, but over the course of a lifetime I’ve developed a pretty good one. Books have helped fuel it.

While reading the new Michael Beschloss book “Presidents of War” I ran across a statement showing how President Lincoln broadened his imagination and knowledge. Things weren’t going well for the Northern army in the early part of the Civil War, but the generals always had excuses. Lincoln had no military experience with which to counter their arguments, so as Beschloss wrote, “Trying to make up for his deficiencies, Lincoln studied books from the Library of Congress on military history and strategy.” 

Tara Westover gave herself a complete education from books. Born into a survivalist family in Idaho that was suspicious of many of the bulwarks of society, including public schools, she was home-schooled  and taught only what her parents wanted her to learn. Gradually as she matured she found books on her own and graduated from colleges, eventually earning a doctorate from the University of Cambridge in England. Read her best-selling memoir “Educated” to understand her journey. 

Our recent attendance at the South Dakota book festival exposed us to another young lady who broke the chains of strict family control to find her own truth. Megan Phelps-Roper wrote the book “Unfollow” detailing her story of the extremist Westboro Baptist Church, the one that ridiculed dead soldiers at their funerals. Through the internet she realized another world existed which she started to want for herself. Again, self-education through reading books gave her the foundation to set herself free.

The foregoing stories about Lincoln, Westover, and Phelps-Roper deal with real people changing their lives and stirring their imaginations through books. I have always liked the story of a fictitious dreamer and his wild imaginings in “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.” The American Heritage Dictionary defines a Walter Mitty as "an ordinary often ineffectual person who indulges in fantastic daydreams of personal triumphs”. 

James Thurber wrote this story in which Mitty imagines he is heroic in five different situations. He daydreams he’s a pilot of a plane in a hurricane and wins the respect of his crew, a skilled surgeon who must improvise a lifesaving technique while operating on a famous person, a defendant in a murder trial whose lawyer argues he couldn’t have killed a person but pride made him say he could’ve. He’s a soldier in battle who volunteers to race across the battlefield and retrieve ammunition which wins the commendation of his sergeant, and he faces a firing squad and stares back at them with contempt and daring. 

James Thurber’s imagination invented the character of Walter Mitty who in turn enjoys his life in the imaginative scenes he conjures. Unfortunately, something or somebody would always and sudden appear to pop the bubble and bring him back to reality. Lincoln, Westover, and Phelps-Roper imagined a change in their lives should take place and went about finding a way to bring it into reality. 

As for my imaginary life, I am on the stage accepting the Pulitzer Prize for literature. Uh, oh, my wife just told me to take out the garbage.

.

With a Limerick

Here’s a couple carvings from about 20 years back. They reminded me of the West’s history and were easy enough to fashion from small bits of wood. People keep asking if I still carve. I don’t, just got tired of it I guess. Now I like to write weekly columns in a newspaper, book reviews, and magazine articles. For the fun of it, I also play around with limericks.

This facebook thing is so much bunk
I’d like to dunk it, ker-plunk
But I’m always waiting
Anticipating
Something besides the same old junk.
...
There, I just added some more junk.

Ex- Model Builder

I used to do a lot of model building. This cannon is about the only thing left of them. Some have been collected in a little museum in the southwest corner of the state, VanHorns Museum in Marmarth. I know because while living in Mandan I had a phone call from them wanting more. I don’t know which ones they have that they’ve acquired from somewhere. We were in that museum once, and I was struck by how neat and well-kept it was.  A gentleman in the Sisseton area turned some brass barrels for me, and I repaid him with a finished cannon.