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First Up the River, 1819
First Up the River, 1819
First Up the River, 1819
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First Up the River, 1819

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“First up the River-1819” is an historical-fiction novel based on an expedition that ascended the Missouri River in 1819. I used the actual journal of the Stephen Long expedition to the Yellowstone as much of the basis for my writing. Though my book is a novel, many of the events in it actually happened. I added narrative and characters to these. Other events weren’t recorded to have happened, but could have. I made these up and they became part of the story.
In 1819, Secretary of War John C. Calhoun sent the expedition up the Missouri to gather scientific information and establish a fort at the mouth of the Yellowstone River. Major Stephen Long led the science part of the expedition, accompanying the Atkinson military expedition, whose mission was to build forts, pacify the Indians, and rid the upper Missouri of English and French influence.
Jake Murphy joins the expedition with the first steamboat to ascend the river, the Western Engineer. Settlers are fast moving up the Missouri...threatening the lands of the Indians along and near the river.
Did the Western Engineer reach its hoped-for destination?. And, what happened on the way? Read on to find the answer. The Western Engineer was the “First Up the River, 1819”.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherKent O'Kelly
Release dateJan 22, 2015
ISBN9781311969149
First Up the River, 1819
Author

Kent O'Kelly

About the Author I spent my engineering career working mostly aerospace advanced projects (what happens next). Having retired, I fortunately have too many hobbies and things to do. Writing suffers, but I managed to write this book. Among the things I do...I’m a private pilot and restored my classic airplane from the basic airframe up. I target shoot and reload my own ammunition. I fish and tie trout flies. Gardening and landscaping are fun, if not always successful. I paint in acrylics and oils. The paintings on book’s cover and the title page are mine. My wife and I travel, via my airplane, airlines, cruise ships and our recreation vehicle. Family events, thankfully, are a major part of our lives. Wood and metal working, among more things, help round out my day.

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    First Up the River, 1819 - Kent O'Kelly

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    First Up the River, 1819

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    Kent O'Kelly

    All rights reserved.

    First Up the River, 1819

    Copyright © 2014 by Kent O’Kelly

    No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author.

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. It doesn't cost much. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thanks for respecting a lot of hard work.

    To: Deborah Hill O’Kelly

    and our family:

    Erin, David, Garrett, & Renee’ Bourcier

    Sean, Teresa, & Ian O’Kelly

    Prologue

    Another arrow arrived with a soft hissing sound and buried half the shaft in the underbelly of the roan. The horse didn’t quiver. Two arrows had finished killing it a few minutes ago. Jake ducked involuntarily, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes hard closed. He opened them and peered cautiously over the still side of the horse. He was pinned down in the U of an oxbow curve of the creek, fifty feet wide and lightly stained…running high near the end of spring run-off.

    In front of him were the usual trees, weeds and spring overflow channels that existed in hundreds of rivers and creeks like this one. Tangles of brush and weeds were caught on the trees, remnants and reminders of spring runoff and fast moving thunderstorms that filled the stream bed, washing anything loose or dead into the lower branches of the trees and bushes. Good hiding places. And, somewhere among those trees and bushes were the Pawnees. There had been about a dozen warriors, but after their initial attempt to overrun him, there were now about ten. Jake couldn’t see them but he could hear them calling each other.

    Christ, Jake muttered to himself through clenched teeth. "I’ve been ridin’ and workin’ from St. Louis up the Missouri and the Platte. I’ve been in the lodges of a half a dozen indian tribes and here I am, hidin’ behind a dead horse beside this piss-ant creek. They probably think I killed those buffalo on their territory. If Kate could only see me now."

    He squinted and looked up into the sun behind him. On the other side of the river was the near vertical dirt and rock wall, about twenty feet high and pocked with holes and swallow nests. At the base of the wall was a large tangle of logs, racked up haphazardly by countless spring floods. He knew that he had only a few minutes before warriors would appear at the top of the wall and be able to shoot across the creek and down on him.

    Jake was sweating profusely. It was mid-May, 1820 and steamy hot, the result of yesterday’s rain. He was also scared. He had heard what could happen to captives in the indian villages...especially those who had killed a relative of a chief or some lesser noble. The squaws were the worst. They could stretch out the torture of a man staked naked in the sun for hours until finally he mercifully passed out. Jake didn’t know it, of course, but he had killed a nephew of a Pawnee chief in the first rush. Jake wanted to get away, But if he didn’t, he sure didn’t want to be taken alive.

    He swatted another mosquito. His sweat was attracting them, and as the sun rose higher, dim in the hot air, they were swarming from the grassy edge of the creek. Although he normally took little notice of insects, today he was nearly going out of his mind with the constant buzzing and biting. Damn the mosquitoes, damn the Indians, damn the luck at having been on foot, damn me for not seeing the Pawnees until they were nearly on us. He put his buckskin shirt back on. It made him hotter, but at least the mosquitoes couldn’t bite him as readily.

    He saw some movement to his left. A warrior was alternately crawling and running in a crouch trying to outflank him toward a spot at which the horse’s body would no longer protect him. Jake raised his .48 caliber Lancaster and tracked the indian. The warrior slipped behind a large cottonwood tree, then stepped quickly to its left, drawing his bow as he did so. Jake fired and as the smoke cleared, saw the indian clutch his stomach and slowly sink to the ground. The arrow went into the dirt at the warrior’s feet. Still bad odds, Jake thought, but I do have three guns and they don’t appear to have any.

    Jake tried to make his shaking hands reload the Lancaster quickly but evenly. One slug of powder, not two. Forget the patch. Just ram the ball home. The end of the barrel is coking up with burnt powder, so push harder to start the ball. The rod bent dangerously, then the ball went home to the powder. He glanced nervously over his shoulder toward the top of the wall behind him on the other side of the creek. Nothing yet, but soon.

    The Indians were shouting to each other. They’re really getting worked up, Jake thought. Time to do something. He caught a flicker of movement on the wall above. A head and upper body appeared, shot an arrow, and ducked back out of sight. The arrow caught him in the thigh. He muffled a scream of pain and rolled over on his back, looking up at the wall. The warrior stood again with his bow drawn, but Jake was ready this time and fired one of his pistols. The indian went to his knees, slowly pitched forward and off the wall down into the creek near the pile of logs. Jake dropped the still smoking pistol and grabbed the other one, just in case. He was nearly faint with pain. He grabbed the arrow shaft and pulled. Nothing. He nearly passed out, then pulled again. This time the arrow head broke free, taking a piece of flesh with it. Jake reached over the horse to his saddle bag, fumbled with the strap, and pulled out a tattered shirt. A wave of nausea passed over him, but he managed to stay awake. He ripped a sleeve off and tied it around the wound. A lousy job, but it’d have to do.

    The calls and shouts behind him were increasing in pitch and Jake knew that he had only another minute or two before they made the final rush. He rolled over and sighted the Lancaster toward the brush and trees in front of the horse. He saw nothing, then a flicker of tan. He fired the rifle, then a pistol, probably hitting nothing. He put both pistols in his belt, grabbed the rifle, and stumbled into the creek. He waded into the cold water and pushed his way toward the log tangle. The water was about five feet deep in the curve of the creek, and his hands searched quickly for a hole under the tangle. He found one and ducked under, hoping there would be an air pocket and that he wouldn’t tangle and drown. The water closed over his head as he passed out.

    Foreword

    First up the River-1819  is an historical-fiction novel based on an expedition that ascended the Missouri River in 1819. I used the actual journal of the Stephen Long expedition to the Yellowstone as much of the basis for my writing. Though my book is a novel, many of the events in it actually happened. I added narrative and characters to these. Other events weren’t recorded to have happened, but could have. I made these up and they became part of the story.

    There were numerous ferries crossing the Mississippi River in 1819. I used one of these in the book. I changed the name of the ferry operator, since I wasn’t certain about many of the details of the ferry service and the fact that my character made use of slaves, which were legal in the Missouri Territory at the time. There are descendants of the ferry boat operator who might take offense at the idea that their families used slaves: hence the name change.

    .

    In 1819, Secretary of War John C. Calhoun sent an expedition up the Missouri to gather scientific information and establish a fort at the mouth of the Yellowstone River. Major Stephen Long led the science part of the expedition, accompanying the Atkinson military expedition, whose mission was to build forts, pacify the Indians, and rid the upper Missouri of English and French influence.

    The expedition ascended the Missouri under power: steam power. The boat was built in Pittsburg and driven down the Ohio to St. Louis. Steamboats were beginning to take hold in 1819, but Long’s boat was different. It was 75 feet long and 13 feet wide. This in itself may not have been new. The thing that made the boat work was its shallow draft. The Missouri, though a large river, was plagued by sand bars and shallow water in many places. So, the steam boat was designed to have a mere 19 inch draft empty, 30 inches fully loaded. But it still often grounded on sand bars, and was plagued by the dirty water in the Big Muddy, as the Missouri was (and still is) called. Water was pulled into the boilers, turned to steam, and used to drive the engine. Dirty water clogged the three boilers and wore out parts in the engine. The expedition often had to stop to clean out the boilers and repair the engine.

    The cover painting (I painted it) shows the Western Engineer, as the steamboat was named, anchored on a bank of the Missouri. It’s late September or early October, as the yellow leaves show. They’re north of the Kansas River, the site of present Kansas City. Men are carrying wood on-board, a never-ending chore. Hardwoods were preferred, as they burned hotter and longer. The stumps in the foreground purport to be trees cut to fuel the boat. The cottonwood at the left was spared…or rather, ignored. Cottonwood was used if nothing else was available. It was soft and didn’t provide the heat for the engine that hardwoods did.

    The boat is shutting down for the night. Steam is being vented through the mouth of the serpent on the bow: supposed to awe the Indians. Smoke issues from the main stack. Tents are pitched on shore, and men are cooking over a fire, lighted with flint and steel. Most expedition men camped for the night on shore.

    Did the Western Engineer reach its hoped-for destination?. And, what happened on the way? Read on to find the answer. The Western Engineer was the First Up the River, 1819.

    Chapter One

    Jake spurred the horse and headed toward the edge of town. It wasn’t much of a town, just a dozen or so cabins, most of them the worse for wear: plus a tavern, a blacksmith shop, a general store of sorts, an excuse for a jail, and a forlorn shack of a church. The horse, sensing the unusual kicking in his ribs and the urgent tone of his rider’s hushed voice, responded. Better to get the hell out of here than to chance stretchin’ a rope, Jake muttered to himself. Sure glad I stole the biggest horse at the rack. Bet he’s the fastest. Sure hope so.

    He raced past the last cabin and out into the forest. As he cleared the edge of town, he could hear shouts and the sounds of pursuing horses’ hooves. Somebody, drunk or not, had seen him steal the horse. The night wasn’t totally dark, with the rutted wagon road dimly lighted by a half moon. It was at least light enough for the horse to see his way.

    Christ, I sure hope this horse keeps his feet on this pile of mud and holes they call a road.

    At Jake’s urging, the horse stretched out and widened the distance between him and his pursuers. Jake saw a small clearing to his right and turned hard into it. He rode in about 50 yards, then further into the forest at the back of the clearing. He waited tensely as the so-called posse ran past the clearing.

    Knowing that they might see his tracks going into the clearing, Jake rode out to the road and back toward town. He was looking for something...another clearing or path off the road that was beaten up enough by horses and wagons that nobody could tell that he had turned off the road. He found one and rode a few yards away from the road, into the shadows, and again waited. He knew that he shouldn’t be in any hurry. They’d be back bye and bye.

    About 30 minutes later, the group of farmers, townsfolk and drunks, a strange sort of posse, walked their horses by on the way back to town. They were talking to each other as they rode. Jake caught a few words and knew that they’d have likely hung him if they’d caught him. Better not be in any hurry gettin’ out of here. Might be a couple riders still comin’ back. He waited another 30 minutes. Things quieted down at the saloon.

    He stepped the horse out of the clearing into the road and headed away from town again. He kicked the horse lightly, urging him into an easy canter. The big chestnut, sensing a firm authority in Jake, responded quickly and his long legs rapidly put distance between them and town. After 15 minutes, he slowed to a walk and, after an hour or so, looked for a road or trail to the side where he could bed down for the night, or what was left of it.

    Under the dim moonlight, Jake found an opening leading to the right off the road. He turned into it and, in about 50 yards, found a small grass-filled clearing. This should do, Jake said to himself. Maybe a spring and some grass for Big Red here. He dismounted and took the gear off the horse, after carefully tying the horse to be sure he didn’t try to go home.

    Jake released the horse to graze, then rolled up in the two wool blankets he’d brought with him. Fortunately, it was only a little damp. It wasn’t rainy or cold, so Jake slept soundly for a few hours.

    Birds and a warming sun awakened him at daybreak. He was used to sleeping on the ground and had slept well. After all, he’d spent lots of time in the forests of Illinois by himself. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and shook out his long hair. The horse was standing quietly, having eaten all the grass he could reach.

    Jake stood and brushed off his leather shirt and breeches. He had guessed right: there was a small spring fed creek beside the clearing. He led Red to the creek and let him drink. After drinking himself, he decided to look for frogs and crayfish. He walked along the bank of the creek, which was clear and cool, one to two feet wide and about 6 inches deep. Where the creek turned, there were cut banks and small pools about a foot deep. In all, a delightful little stream.

    Jake walked along the creek, which ran in and out of the trees, and soon caught a hand-sized frog. He then looked under rocks and sunken limbs for crayfish. They were there as well in some abundance. He caught five in 20 minutes.

    Sure would like to cook these things up, Jake said to himself. But, I’m only about 15 miles from town and I can’t chance havin’ somebody seein’ smoke. Jake was an experienced woodsman and like most frontier-folk, he could and would eat things raw. He dressed out his catch, then returned to his camp in the tall grass by the trees. He ate some of his bread, the frog and crayfish and drank some water. Not much of a breakfast, but it’d have to do.

    He stood up and took stock of his gear.

    The saddle was stout and fairly new. And, in addition to the saddle blanket, there was a pair of saddle bags.

    Wonder what’s in here, Jake muttered, as he unstrapped the bags.

    A few handy things, as it turned out. A pouch with some jerky, a pair of leather gloves, a small flask half full of bourbon, a metal cup, plate, and some battered tableware. There was also a small knife, which would prove useful. He looked over the things he had brought with him. In addition to his blankets, he had a good Lancaster rifle and a possibles bag with powder, lead, balls, patches, bullet mold and lead heating ladle, cleaning tools and extra gun flints. He had also brought a back pack of a sort with him with a wool shirt, moccasins, some food, a cup, a plate, a small pot, flint and steel, two wool blankets, plus some dry grass for making a fire. A more or less square piece of canvas, which would serve as a tent, rounded out his supplies.

    He collected and stowed his things, saddled up and stepped into the stirrup. A smooth, quick movement put him in the saddle and he moved back into the road. It appeared deserted and he rode at an easy canter, headed southwest.

    Chapter Two

    Western Illinois was heavily wooded and choked with deadfall timber, vines and assorted tangles that would make cross country riding nearly impossible. So, the road, more like a rutted wagon track, was welcome, even when muddied up by a rain. Clearings appeared here and there, covered for the most part by tall grass: in some places as tall as a man. Small settlements were springing up every 20 miles or so and farmsteads had been carved out of the forest and clearings here and there.

    Toward noon, Jake saw a small house in a clearing off to his left. He turned into the forest opening leading to the house. The house had been built in the style of most frontier houses of the time, using logs and rocks cleared to make room for crops.  It was a rustic one-room affair with a mud-chinked stone fireplace, a small roofed porch, and a privy out back.

    In the front yard, Jake saw a young woman splitting fireplace wood. She was very nearly his age and was pretty, thin and, by the way she handled the axe, quite strong.

    Jake rode up slowly with his hands down, palms out, in a sign that he meant no harm. The woman turned, stood up straight, leaned on the axe handle, and looked at Jake.

    Hello, Jake said.

    Hello yourself, she replied. What can I do for you? She looked up into his eyes, searching for anything that would be threatening in his manner or look. Jake noted that she had a rifle leaning on the saw horse next to the splitting block.

    He looked back into her narrowed eyes and saw a pretty woman, but one who wasn’t about to show fear. I wondered if you could spare a bit of dinner? I’ll pay for it by finishin’ the wood splitting you’ve started. Name’s Jake. Mind if I step down?

    She hesitated a few moments, then said, I suppose you’re welcome, Jake. Step down. I haven’t much, but I’ll share it with you. My name’s Kate. You split some wood. I’ll go see what I’ve got for dinner. She walked to the porch and into the house.

    Jake looked her over as she went. She had a loose, homespun shirt above an ankle length skirt. In spite of the rather shapeless shirt, Jake could see that she was well put together. She wore well-worn shoes that looked more like boots. Her attire certainly wasn’t stylish, even by the standards of the day. But it was serviceable for frontier living.

    Jake picked up the axe and looked it over. It was single bladed, with a handle badly beaten by the inevitable missed strokes that sometimes happen even to an experienced axeman. The blade was dull and chipped from encounters with rocks. Jake knew that a sharp axe wasn’t needed for wood splitting, since the axe was twisted just before contact, breaking the wood apart rather than burying the head in it. Tree cutting was another matter, of course. A good sharp axe was a primary tool in clearing a frontier forest and building things. Maybe he could find something to hone the blade and make a new handle as an extra bonus for some home-cooked food.

    Like most frontiersmen, Jake was an experienced wood cutter. He didn’t particularly like it, but it had to be done. He established an easy rhythm, happy that the logs had been sawn about 12 inches or so long. The short length made splitting easy. As the day warmed, so did Jake. He took off his shirt and continued.

    Kate looked out of one of the three windows in the cabin. She saw a tanned, hard, 190 pound frame on a six foot two body. She let out a small gasp, pursed her lips, and took a deep breath. This might be a pleasant evening.

    Chapter Three

    Jake continued to split stove and fireplace wood. When he had a pretty fair pile, he went into the shed and looked for something. He presently found it: a sharpening stone...a worn, dished-in stone, but it’d have to do. He held the axe head and handle between his legs and worked the edge with the stone. He soon had a fair edge on it. He then went looking for a piece of wood that would make a decent handle. He found a limb about 30 inches long. Looking around, he found a draw knife among the debris of the shed and set to shaping the limb into a handle. It wasn’t hard to chip and beat the wood in the axe head and drive the old handle out. He succeeded, then set about inserting and finishing the new handle. Using the adze, he shaped the handle to fit the axe head.

    Shape it, fit it, carve on it, fit it...finally the handle fit the axe head well enough. With an old saw, he cut a slot in the top of the new handle. Using his pocket knife, he shaped a wedge from a scrap of wood. From there on, it was easy. He inserted the handle in the axe blade, tapped the wedge in, and the job was finished.

    Jake walked out of the shed and checked on Red. He had tethered him out of sight from the road. Not that he expected anyone to be out looking for the horse this far from town, but it didn’t hurt to be careful. The horse had eaten the grass around the tether and wound the rope around a tree. Jake moved the horse to new grass, still keeping him out of sight from the road, just in case.

    In the house, Kate found a few potatoes and some venison. She added them to the pot hanging on the hook in the fireplace. She put some twigs on the pile of ashes, got down on her hands and knees, and blew gently. The ashes flew off the few coals remaining from breakfast. A few more puffs set the twigs afire. Adding some bigger pieces of wood, she soon had a small, hot fire burning. Swinging the pot in over the fire she started heating the stew to a low boil.

    She cleaned herself up, brushed her hair, and put on a bit of her precious supply of perfume. Looking in her mirror, she saw a pretty face. A clean blouse from the chest by the bed finished things up. Well...that’s about the best as I can do.

    Returning from behind the curtain by her bed, she wiped off the table, a rude bench-like affair, set out the best table ware and plates she had, and went looking for some coffee. She found some, put it in the pot, added some water, and set it beside the fire to boil. Don’t know why I’m tryin’ to show off, she said to herself. But I don’t have company often, especially a good lookin’ man like that one out there.

    She looked out the window and saw Jake coming. She turned and pretended to be busy. Jake knocked and came in through the door, carrying a bucket of water. I found the bucket empty on the porch and thought you might need some fresh water. She turned and thanked him, noting that he had washed up, run his fingers through his hair, and put his shirt on.

    Please sit down, Jake. Food should be hot in a minute.

    Jake sat down and looked her over as she went about getting supper ready. Damn, Jake said to himself. That woman’s really put together right. Her blouse was loose enough to show that everything was sure in the right place.           

    She took the stew pot and coffee kettle from the fire, put them on the table and fetched some bread from the sideboard. There...guess we’re ready for supper.

    She dished up the stew while Jake poured the coffee. Help yourself to some bread. Then came the question that starts most conversations between strangers: Where you from? Jake swallowed hard, knowing where this conversation was headed. Shall I tell her a straight story and maybe end what could be a good night? Or, should I shade things to make me look good. I’ll likely never see her again...

    My family has a farm about 30 miles east of here.

    You goin’ somewhere?

    Well...uh...yes. Think I’ll head for San Louie. I’ll figure out where I go next after I get there.

    Doesn’t sound very definite.

    Well, I just don’t have definite plans. I’ll figure things out as I go."

    You runnin’ from somethin’?

    Jake thought a few seconds, then said, My mother died about six months ago, and Pa took to drinkin’. I’ve been workin’ for him on the farm since we got there ten years ago. I was about ten. Left me alone for awhile, but he started in on me and kept it up the last couple a’ months. I figured that I wasn’t gettin’ any place, wasn’t makin’ any money, and probably wouldn’t get some any time soon. I took as much of his guff as I could. Then two days ago, I just gathered up my things and walked away.

    Uh...he thought a few moments..."Your question...yes, I’m runnin’ from something. I walked from the farm into town and headed west. Walkin’ was slow. It was gettin’ dark. I saw horses hitched outside the saloon. I took the best of the bunch, the big red horse tied up out of sight out back. Don’t know if I’m far enough away yet, so I’m bein’ careful and tryin’ to stay out of sight. A man’d know

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