Joe Henry's Journey

Joe Henry’s Journey

Up the Missouri River

to the Montana Gold Fields

1862

Marcia Melton

Raven Publishing, Inc.

Norris, MT

Joe Henry’s Journey

Copyright © 2014 Marcia Melton

Cover art © 2014 Fran Doran

Maps © 2014 Marypat Zitzer

Published by Raven Publishing, Inc.,

P.O. Box 2866, Norris, MT 59745, USA

This work of fiction is a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any event or person, living or dead, other than those documented in history, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without express permission from the publisher.

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For Monte Melton, my father, who, as a boy, roamed the hills near Bannack

and as a young man, worked with others to preserve this place,

Montana’s first territorial capital,

as a State Park for future generations.

Native Americans called the Rocky Mountains,

"Shining Mountains." The Spanish called the region

"Montaña Relucientes." The miners coming north from

Colorado used the name Montana for the area that would eventually become Montana Territory.

Chapter One

Gold

Gold! In the 1860s, this word rang through the mountains, hills, and valleys of the western United States like a loud clanging bell. It was so loud, in fact, that the clamorous sound was heard all the way to Kentucky. The sound of that word demanded attention—and it got it—from my father.

I was eleven at the time. I’d already been doing the work of farming right alongside Pa. Breaking up fields, hoeing, planting, tending, and harvesting didn’t leave me too much time to have fun. But then it didn’t leave time to get into trouble either. I try to see things two ways.

When my stepmother Rose took sick, the farm work became not alongside my father, but instead of him. While Pa cared for her, found neighbor ladies to help, summoned the doctor, and looked after the little ones, I tried to take over on the farm. I worked in the fields until my shoulders ached and my legs could hardly hold me up.

My sisters, Samantha (Sam, for short) and Hope, were four and five, too young to be of much help. They were good girls. They played in a corner of our kitchen where they stayed busy with corn-husk dolls, blankets made out of cloth scraps, and tiny dishes they’d fashioned from wood chips for plates and walnut shells for bowls. Their soft voices cooed and laughed, but after their Ma took sick, they played quietly, keeping to themselves, and not getting in the way. Once in awhile, I could make them smile by playing house with them and letting them dress me up like a ma in a bonnet and an apron. I didn’t mind as long as none of the neighbor boys saw me. I know I looked pretty funny because the girls would giggle, piling on more of my costume. I’d do most anything to make those two smile.

Some might say Pa wasn’t lucky in wives or lucky in love, but I don’t think he’d say that. A photo that I kept right by my bed showed my own Ma, Josephine, as a beautiful, golden-haired, tiny young woman, thin as a reed, and with eyes that, even in a stiff formal photo, twinkled like shining stars at her husband. Too short a time they were together before she died giving birth to me. Grandma said I looked out at the world seriously and didn’t cry too much, even as a baby boy. Pa named me Joseph Henry. It was as close as he could come to bringing back his Josephine. My name became shortened to Joe Henry. Joe for my Ma and Henry for my Grandpap and my Pa. As I grew, I combined my Ma’s blond curls and my Dad’s black hair into a warm brown thatch.

After my Ma died, my Grandma and Grandpap helped my Pa and me. We stayed on our farm right next door to them. After a few years, my Pa married Rose Ellen, a round, happy lady who said to me, Joe Henry, no disrespect to your Ma, but if you like, you can call me Ma too.

That’s when I started calling her Rose Ma, and I loved her like my Pa did. Her jolly laugh made our house happy. She could cook and sew and do everything we needed. When Sam and Hope were born, we were a family—until one day when Rose Ma took sick with a cough and a chill.

She went downhill fast. Eventually she couldn’t even leave the bed. The cough took all her strength. Grandma said she had pneumonia. She was white as a ghost, and then she died.

It seemed like Pa died too. Grandma and Grandpap and me were all that kept us going. Pa was worn out with feeling bad. He couldn’t hardly talk or move. Grandpap and I tried to keep things going, but Grandpap has a bum foot from an old accident, so he’s not too spry. Grandma can’t hear too well and sometimes she gets a little mixed up, but she cared for the girls and gave them love and treats to try to make them smile. They missed their Ma so much that all their little girl delight turned to whispers.

Our crops were small and meager. Finally, Grandpap and Grandma said, Son, you’d better sell this place and move back in with us.

With the civil war raging and dividing our Kentucky, there weren’t too many buyers for a beat-up farm. When the first interested man came along, Pa sold our farm to him for hardly anything. Without one ounce of enthusiasm, Grandpap and Grandma and I gathered up a few things and took them down the road to their farm. We children all moved into one room and Pa slept out in the barn.

The Civil War was taking many men from our area. Some went Union and some went Confederate. We didn’t believe in slavery, so Pa would surely go to the Union Army, but he hadn’t yet. At about that time, a letter arrived from Rose Ma’s brother who had gone west about a year ago. In it was that word, Gold!

When Pa read about gold, I think he got his idea. For the first time in a long time, his voice sounded stronger. I’m gonna strike out for the west, folks. Joe Henry, you and the girls can stay here, and I’ll send any money I make back to you. We’ve got to get some money, and I’ve got to get out of here.

Grandpap lit his pipe. Tell me more, he said.

Pa wasn’t talking much in those hard days, but he explained to us as best he could. You know Rose Ellen’s youngest brother, Jake. He sent me a letter. He’s been in California, Colorado, and Nevada and has had some luck in the gold fields. Now he’s in a place the miners call Montana and thinks there’s money to be made. I can join up with him. He says I can come out there and make some money. Maybe I can get us a new start.

Grandpap took a long draw on his pipe. Jake, huh. I remember him. Wild kid and not much on hard work. We used to call him Jick when he was a young’un. One thing about Jick, if there’s easy money to be had without working, he’ll find it. Jick is like a tick. He’ll suck off’n others to make his way. I wouldn’t base too much on him.

He’s not that bad, Pa said. I don’t need to be his partner, but I figure he does know how to get me started. I’ll know somebody out there, and I can learn something and then go my own way. From here, the best way to get there is to take a steamboat from St. Louis up to the Missouri River and west to a place called Fort Benton. From there a man can get to the gold fields. It’s go west or go to the war.

This plan sounded way better than Pa joining up to the war, but somehow in his sad state, I wasn’t sure he could do it alone. I loved little Sam and Hope and old Grandpap and Grandma, but I thought they’d be okay. It was my Pa I didn’t know about.

I could come with you, Pa. Keep you company for awhile. And I got good eyes. If I can spot rocks in our cornfield, I’ll bet I can spot gold nuggets in the dirt too. Take me along.

Gold doesn’t grow in the dirt like corn, Joe Henry, Pa said. But I sure could use someone who could see gold.

So, come about the first of May, we lit out for the W

Chapter Two

Pick Your Battles

It was awful hard to say goodbye to Grandpap and Grandma and especially Sam and Hope. Sam looked so serious as she gave me a little heart that she and Grandma had sewn out of calico. It fit right in the palm of my hand.

Maybe you can keep it in your pocket, she whispered. It’s for good luck. Her hand shook when she gave it to me.

Hope tried hard to be brave, but tears filled her sad brown eyes and ran down her cheeks as she stood holding Grandma’s hand.

Pa shook hands with Grandpap and hugged Grandma gently. I was so glad when he said, We’ll be back, folks. Don’t know just when, but I promise we will. His shoulders were stooped these days, but today he seemed to have a shaky grip on a plan, and he looked a mite stronger.

Come on now, Joe Henry. We’d best get ourselves up to St. Louie, he said as he put his hand on my back and guided me away from the little group at the end of the road to our Kentucky farm. My feet would hardly have moved if it wasn’t for the nudge of Pa’s hand.

Pa had arranged a ride for us to St. Louis, Missouri, in the wagon of some neighbors going there. We lived in Ballard County, Kentucky, so we’d go north to St. Louis. It would take us about a week to get there. From St. Louis, we would take a steamboat up the Missouri River to Fort Benton, Montana, meet Jake, and look for gold. It was a long ways