Return

My return was swift, overland through the Panama and a speedy steamer up to New York. Upon my return, I found that Rosalie had moved into my home and studio. I found her resolved to remain with me and to endure whatever ills had to be suffered in order for us to stay together and to become man and wife. The poor girl could not live with the falsity of pretending to be any longer Ludlow's wife, and, somehow, she has brought her parents around to understanding her choice, and they support us! Although I regarded Ludlow as a brother once, his conduct is reprehensible and there really is no other answer for it; to throw away a woman such as this on a man like Ludlow cannot be God's will. I am greatly grieved that she has lost the little babe that drew us together, and is still showing the effects of her ordeal, so thin, so pale. However, perhaps once we are wed this sad omission may be remedied.

New York society will holler, and there will be a great crying-up about morality, but after visiting among the Mormons, where wifeliness has an altogether different meaning, it seems but a small thing to obtain just one divorce, and to obtain one marriage, especially where the case is so meritorious. In any case, perhaps we shall make our home somewhere more tolerant, so that my dear lovely Rosalie will not have to suffer from unkind "cuts" and uncouth remarks by strangers, or worse, former friends. Meanwhile, while we await Ludlow's slow return so that we can begin the divorce proceedings, I am painting like a fiend, so as to raise money and to silence the unholy clamor of public rebuke: let them look on these views and remain petty, if they can!

Handcarts 1859

We came across the most extraordinary caravan of souls marching along, singing, with all their possessions and several small infants balanced on handcarts, such as a fruiterer would use, only with larger wheels to overcome the rough obstacles of the prairie road. They are Mormons bound for Zion. It is disturbing to witness such zeal. A man I talked to, who never ceased in his stride as I rode alongside, said they were the last of the Nauvoo Mormons, and that he was a carpenter bound for Salt Lake City to help to build the Temple. What manner of people is this?

A Lady Found in the Grass

I wonder if I shall encounter that young woman I found on the Prairie in 1859? She was lying on her back in the tall grass, staring at the sky, with her dead Pater beside her. As I bent over what I thought was another corpse, I was so startled when she blinked her great blue eyes that I jumped! I'd passed their handcart expedition earlier on, and never expected to find so sad a scene as I doubled back to look for the Shoshone party. It was a remarkable scene, like something from Arthur. When I picked her up from the grass, she was so fragile I thought she'd break as I laid her over my saddle. Eventually, she lived all the way to Fort Bridger, to my surprise. I suppose the female is tougher than she looks: certainly the Mormon female must be made of stern stuff to undertake such an insanely difficult walk. She was bound for Salt Lake City with an emigrant wagon train last I saw her. Her name was Harriet Ferguson, I believe. (Now, if she is recovered from her ordeal, she should be a beauty, I believe.) When White Dog's sister combed and braided her hair, I remember she blushed when I looked in on her, surprised to find a Lady where I'd remembered a poor, half-mad, starving girl). I admit, I had stared, as she reminded me so powerfully of Raphael's Portrait of a Lady with a Unicorn in Rome; - the same grace, golden hair, high forehead and great, sad blue eyes. Odd to think that I may know someone in Salt Lake City, although we barely exchanged above a few score of words throughout that entire journey.

To Find an Entryway to Zion

When Lander and I were there last on a similar mission, we skirted Salt Lake to the North to avoid the Mormon troubles. My only anxiety is caused by this infernal delay. They wish me to travel with a small Army detachment. And in what way is this subtle and likely to allow us freedom among the Mormons? The entrance to Salt Lake Valley is through a narrow defile, quite defensible. To travel with an Army Unit is a waste of personnel, and contrary to the mission. I do wish Frederick were with me now! Together, we could embark right away and be welcomed with open arms, because it is well known that Brigham Young wants the railway, and where Frederick led. the railway will follow.

Allies or No?

I am to meet with the Superintendent of Indian Affairs, James Doty, who has pleaded for more government help for the Indians in Utah. Washington does not want to expend resources there, rather, they expect him to negotiate treaties to end hostilities. He was aided in these negotiations by the vigorous action of Connor's troops against the Shoshone in the Battle of Bear River in January 1863. There the soldiers killed at least 224 Shoshone (according to the official report) and perhaps as many as 300, including almost 90 women and children. In retaliation, Shoshone attacked Mormon colonies in Cache Valley, thereby deepening the hostility between the Mormons and the soldiery. A treaty is needed to establish the neutrality of this key group, which will influence the Goshoots and Paiutes neighboring on their territory, and provide for safe passage for Union forces and the right to establish military posts, wagon roads, and mail, telegraph and railroad routes as well as the right to build and maintain ferries on streams in the area. A California regiment of volunteers is also being mustered to take over protection of the Western passes from the Nauvoo Legion, and to support Connor's troops in the Eastern part of the territory. I am to help expedite these various processes, to observe and report.

Espionage

I am to travel as "myself," the Western artist, in company with other artistic types as pretext for our journey, going so far as to pose as a Copperhead if need be. I am thinking of taking Fitz Hugh Ludlow, the writer for the New York Post who has written favorably about my painting, with me as a companion. He seems a likable enough fellow, and I remember meeting him in Waterville at his father-in-law's house, and fishing his fiance out of the creek. Anyone who marries a woman like that can't be entirely a fool. He is sociable and good-looking, and can ride, and shoot, and talks a good yarn, although he writes a tolerable amount of nonsense and he made a great name for himself writing about taking hasheesh when he was a younger man, which gave him a great reputation. But I cannot imagine he has kept on with that, otherwise he would not have such a redoubtable old bear of a banker as a father-in-law. Old Amos would not allow it. My superiors here, at any rate, have looked into his background and found him to be a dyed in the wool abolitionist (a bit too hot-headed, perhaps) but also a social climber. It is felt that the editor of Harpers can be prevailed upon to give him some writing assignment to make the whole thing come together without any appearance of contrivance on my part. So it will be.

A Mission

Frederick Lander is dead. It is hard to imagine that great, stout heart no longer beats. He was dedicated to freedom, and a finer man ne'er walked this earth. Colonel Kimball, his successor, has asked me to go to Camp _______ to receive instructions for a reconnoitering mission to the West. In short, I am to secure the compliance of our Plains Indian allies, or at least to dissuade their interference on the Confederate side, and to try to undo or mitigate any damages done by Copperhead, English or French or even German spies active in Utah. The troops at Fort Bridger and Colonel Connor are pinned down there; Brigham Young reputedly can muster 1,000 men to oppose them in a day; - the troops are tolerated at President Young's pleasure alone. I am to meet several of his Legionnaires: Lot Smith, Porter Rockwell, and others, and assess their readiness to fight, and for whom? Apparently Connor has worked out a temporary alliance with the mysterious "Nauvoo Legion" to "protect" the mails and overland transportation, but he must keep up an appearance of combativeness and of course cannot move about the City as a civilian and listen to what the people are saying. The few copies of the Deseret News that we have seen are not favorable to the Union, while Connor's Vedette is shrill in its attacks on the Copperheads. It is a tinderbox. Therefore, I am to go with all possible haste to that locale to observe, to do what I can, and get back with a report with all haste.

St. Louis

Rosalie Ludlow and her cousins met us in St. Louis, to see us off. Oh, how can I write this wretched pleasantry when I want to shout ROSALIE ROSALIE ROSALIE ROSALIE I am deeply shamed at my actions here, and quite undone. Nothing like this has ever happened to me, at least not with a gentlewoman, not in Rome, or Switzerland or Dusseldorf or Paris, or least of all, New York, and not with the wife of a friend! Imagine my horror at discovering her innocence, of all things, after four years of marriage to Ludlow. I am appalled and can barely look Ludlow in the face. No doubt we will have many more things to occupy our thoughts in the weeks to come. Today we leave St. Joseph and begin the ride to Fort Bridger. The Army escort we'd planned for has not arrived, communication is hopelessly mired in the War, which is not going well, the outcome very unclear. I must ride on regardless, making contact with the Shoshone, Pawnee and PiUtes (if I may) and drive hard for the Fort and on to Salt Lake City. Ludlow will have to muddle along best he can, the poor wronged creature. What infernal ambition induced me to bring him along!

Buffalo Hunt

Friendlies

This sketch I made while we were in the Plains, before we came to Salt Lake City and the Mormons. It is of my friend White Dog, with whom I was buffalo hunting, and three of his men. This War of ours will preserve these fine characters for just a little while longer, but I fear once the railway goes through, it will be the end for them and their freedoms. I had to commit this drawing on the back of a piece of skin, with the very few colors that were left me, augmented by some Indian colors - a fine sienna and charcoal from the fire - consequently I find this drawing smells more authentic than it looks. I shall never part from it, in memory of that day flying over the oceans of grass in pursuit of the greatest, stoutest-hearted beasts of the world.

The Gift

To my amazement, I found my Raphael lady, Harriet Ferguson. She is married to Brigham Young, and now calls herself "Tansy," to distinguish herself from the other two Harriets to whom Young is also married. She is in amazing health, and is constantly with the President, being his "hospitality wife." At the Ball, she shone like her original in Rome, resplendid in a deep blue satin gown that brought out the color of her extraordinary eyes, which, I am happy to say, no longer have their vestigial sadness. She danced a schottiche with me, and when we cooled ourselves in the side galleries with some "Mormon punch," she arranged with directness and tact for me to have a private interview with the President. She has amazing intuition. As I was preparing to leave Salt Lake City, for the journey west with Josiah Smith, she sent me a package containing, among other things such as tea and venison jerky, the same satin ball gown with an unsigned note saying, "Dear Mr. Bierstadt, you once saved my life, now please allow me to save yours. Take this gown to the Lady you love and make her your wife. Let no thing stand in your way." This lady is no trifler; after my initial consternation, I bethought myself to follow her advice.

Mormon Wells

We headed across the great alkali desert, a choking, baking, itching experience. This is the farthest West I have been; Landers and I turned around before we reached this far in 1859. The strangness of the landscape is beyond anything I cound imagine. I am grateful for the company of Smith, a ever-smiling and cheerful companion, absolutely filled with excellent knowledge of this vicinity. I believe even though we may be followed and watched by the Goshoots (or others, be they Danites or Confederate spies or blackguards of another stripe) we have the very best of guides. Our stage looks out of place in this wilderness, far from the beaten trail. I am in dread of the narrow defiles that separate us from the next Stage Post, just the other side of the blue hills ahead and beyond this sea of cruel diamonds. These odd trees Smith calls "Joshua Trees." He says they may be guides to a source of water if one knows where to look. He took me forthwith to a small spring, under a ledge of most unlikely-looking rock, populated even with small fish!

A Wretched Scene with No Letters

Found this one damn letter. One damn letter and six corpses. The Post had been burnt down, the Post horses slain, not even a pig or a hen left living. No Indian would indulge in such waste, although my travelling companions, with the exception of young Smith, were content to think it so. I alone went through the stinking remains, looking for what I could find of use: no guns or arms of any kind were left, the corpses stripped clean. Also, it seemed some supplies had been taken: flour, whiskey, dried goods. It was a cowardly attack, at night, or perhaps the well was poisoned, first, and the gang that did this returned. I cannot tell if it was Confederates or some other hostile raiders. This one letter I found blown some yards away, stuck in a thornbush. I'll take it to Mr. Scalmarini, if he lives, as this seems the proper thing to do. No one would stop to help bury the remains: they remain to be picked clean by the dogs and buzzards. I do not know if one of those men was there to meet me. The trip to San Francisco seems very long, indeed, today with such foul brigands about us.

Virginia City

We arrived in Virginia City in a state of extremis. For a time I thought we'd be burying Ludlow at the side of the Trail. Upon our arrival I was fortunate enough to locate a Chinese laundry, and obtain what the kindest thing was to be for him. I found him sitting on his bed in the hostel gazing at his pistol, which I removed from him and bade the half-breed lady inn-keeper to draw him a hot bath, whilst I went in search of the evil that cured him. He slept for seventeen hours, which held us back considerable but gave me time to reconnoitre and learn the source of our troubles, the notorious Tiburio Vasquez, lately released from jail in California and evidently back on the Trail taking what he can, and destroying all the rest. Wells Fargo continues to operate these Posts at what cost, the profits must be enormous. Young Smith kept his wits about him on this journey, and no doubt saved us from further trouble, otherwise I might not be here to write this.

Sierras

The tediousness of the company could little dim my enthusiasm for these magnificent ranges. In three days, with luck and persistence, we may reach the American River goldfields, and from there in a few more days, the Golden Coast of California and San Francisco. We will drive for Sacramento and from there, a steamer down to the City and then, home and all that awaits. I have heard that there are steamers to Panama City, and from there, a new railway has been built over the isthmus of Panama which takes but three hours, and not the usual three days by native mule. I may be home with Rosalie inside a month, if only I may free myself of this company. I am anxious to learn fresher news of the course of the War, and to see if there are any new instructions for me. I am on fire to return to New York at the earliest opportunity.

Arrival

Finally, we have arrived at the Pacific and at last I may be rid of that damn fool. Fortunately, his own prolifgacy and vicious habit of body will provide me the very outlet that I need to remove myself from his tedious company. Is there anything sadder than the end of a beautiful friendship between men? Needing to solace myself in Nature, I have travelled up the coast with young Smith and observed the sea lions baying like Pashas on their rock, the fine green sea dashing clear over them, and streaming like silvered ribbons down the rock. I attempted to capture the ebb and flow of this marine life, I think, successfully, in this little oil, which I can sell for $125. in the town, enough to see me halfway home. (Luckily, I was able to procure some excellent Parisian colors from a lady in the town, lately from France. See how the immoral trade serves Art, even in this depraved and desolate spot!)