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The following story has
been edited only for content; specifically, grammatical and spelling errors
reflect those in original manuscript, selected portions of story have been
omitted to provide conciseness, and subheadings have been added to reflect audio
version.
While
I am a descendant of the
Wagner
family on my mother’s branch of the family tree, I am a descendant of the
Helm family on my father’s branch.
My
father was just as proud of his family heritage as my mother was, and rightly
so. He used to often tell me how his
ancestors had crossed the plains. The
following story, as taken from the first hand account of my great, great aunt,
Frances Helm McClure, in no small way emphasizes the hardships these pioneers
endured on their journey west.
But
before I begin to read from her story, I want to acknowledge that while my
ancestors made it possible for me to sit here and proudly say I am a fourth
generation Californian, my ancestors were not the first to occupy this land.
As is true of all the
United States
, this land once belonged to someone else: the Native Americans.
Keeping
this in mind, I have omitted some of the more derogatory remarks my great, great
aunt made in describing her encounter with Native Americans.
I also apologize for using the politically incorrect term, “Indian”
but have done so in an attempt to avoid corruption of her original manuscript.
In her defense, I can only use that old, well-worn cliché, “That was
then; this is now,” to address any concerns that may be voiced by the first
true Americans. You are not your
ancestors—nor am I mine. While we
can be proud of them, we should also learn from their mistakes and not repeat
them.
Had
that member of the wagon train not been so quick-tempered as to hit a brave on
the head with a plank, would there still have been a battle?
Who among us can say?
Linda
S. Helm
April
18, 2008
My
father,
Allen
Helm
, was born in
Tennessee
, December 25, 1801, and my mother,
Elizabeth
(
McClure
) Helm, was born in
North Carolina
, October 27, 1810. I was born on
April 9, 1846, and when we started for
California
I lacked eight days of being ten years old.
Four
deaths in our immediate family, delayed our start, and made it a sad one.
On April 1st, 1856, however, we finally started, and oh how
excited all of us children were at the thought of the long ride, about which
everyone had been talking.
In
our party were my four brothers, four sisters, two nephews, my little orphaned
niece, and sister-in-law.
We
went by a small town, called
Chapel Hill
, and our party stopped there, and did some trading, and bought some candy and
gave it to us children, which was a great treat.
In those days, we did not often get store candy to eat.
Our
party had three wagons. One of
these, a spring-wagon with a canvas cover, was drawn by a span of mules, and was
driven by my father. The two other,
larger covered wagons, were drawn by oxen.
Others
had planned to travel along with us. Some
of them were relatives of our family, and others were just friends.
They had all agreed to start at the same time, from wherever they had
been living, and join my father on the road.
So, as we traveled along, these families “fell in” with us.
Each
family had its own wagons, stock and provisions.
But, for protection against Indian attacks, they wanted to camp as near
to one another at night as they could. Because
the stock had to be fed, wherever grazing was to be had, made it impossible for
such a large party to remain close together all the time.
Those
that had loose cattle with them, had to stand guard at night, and be on the
watch all day, to keep the Indians from driving off their herd.
The whole train had almost to creep along.
Wherever there was good grass, short stops would be made to let our stock
feed. And, in desert regions, we had
to travel by night on account of the heat.
Tom
Burton
, who had been appointed captain, always rode ahead of the party and picked out
the camping place for us.
A
good average of ox team traveling was from nine to twelve miles in a long day.
At
first, we did not see any Indians; but, it wasn’t long before our troubles
began. And, all of them weren’t
Indian troubles. One time, the loose
cattle got frightened and stampeded. All
the men got busy, and tried to keep them back from the wagons.
It couldn’t be done, however, and as they went running past us, the
oxen, drawing the two schooners, became frightened, also, and began to run away.
I
was riding in the wagon with my sister
Jane
, and her two little children, at the time.
(We children used to change about from one wagon to the other, whenever
we could—just for the fun of it.) I
don’t know how long the stampede lasted. Only
a few minutes, though, I guess. But,
the big wagon shook and jolted us as we went pell-mell over the rough ground.
My brother couldn’t stop the oxen, any more than he could turn them
from the direction that they were headed. But,
luckily for us, one of the animals—named “Old Broad”—finally stumbled
and fell. His body was dragged a
little ways. Then, one wheel passed
over him, and he was caught between the wheels.
This, and his weight, stopped his team-mate—and, just in time!
If we had gone ten steps farther that direction, we would all have been
killed. It took the men quite a
while to get “Old Broad” out from between the wheels, and yoked up again, so
that we could go on. Another time,
my youngest sister,
Nancy
Margaret
, fell out of the wagon, and one of the heavy wheels passed over her.
She was so badly injured, she couldn’t walk for a long time, and all
the rest of her life, she was troubled by that injury to her hip.
There
were lots of buffalo on the plains, then, too.
Often we sighted big droves of them.
And, one time we saw a large bunch of them, not so very far from where we
camped. They began to look as if
they were headed toward us. So, our
captain got on his horse and went to turn them another direction, for they said
that whenever the leader of the buffaloes started, he hunched his head down and
never looked up to see where he was going, or what was ahead of him, and that
the whole herd would follow him that way, and run over anything that happened to
be in their path. So, our captain
rode to where they could see him. As
soon as they caught sight of him, they turned and went away in the opposite
direction.
We
had to cross some rivers that were pretty deep.
The
Platte
River
was so deep we had to stay there all one day, while the men cut down big
sapling trees. They lashed these
together, making a raft to ferry the wagons across.
Ropes were tied to the trees, and the raft was guided with these, and the
wagons kept from going downstream. They
had to swim the stock across.
Pike’s Peak
And Devil’s Gate
We
moved so slowly, we were in sight of
Pike’s Peak
for many days. In one place, we
could see it so plainly that it didn’t seem far from our road, but it must
have been many miles.
At
another place, where [we] camped, there was a spring of cold water, and about
three steps from it, a hot one—so hot that it would burn your finger.
There were no holes dug, where these springs were, the water was just
running out over the top of the ground; [a]ll of us children had a lot of fun
playing there. My sister,
Melinda
, and I always had to mind the smaller children, whenever we camped, and we were
never allowed to go farther than a few feet from the wagons, for fear of
Indians.
Even
when we were gathering “buffalo chips” or sagebrush limbs to cook with, we
had to stay close to the wagons. But,
we were all young enough to have a good time playing every chance we had.
I
think, it was at the [s]ame camp, where the hot and cold springs were, that we
saw the rock pile, they called the Devil’s Gate.
It wasn’t far from our camp, and when the grownups went to see it, all
of us children trailed along.
That
is how, I happened to get the chance to walk through it.
It was a lot of rocks, with an open space between them, and with a long
rock laid across the top—like a gate, with an arch over it.
All of us walked through it, before going back to camp.
For
miles we would travel and see nothing but sagebrush.
And, the little prairie dogs would come up out of holes, like squirrel
holes, and bark at us, then dodge back under ground again.
They were as cute as could be. We,
also, saw lots of coyotes, and a few mudhens.
We never killed these, however for they weren’t good to eat.
In
all those months we were on our way, I don’t think the fear of Indians ever
really left us. And, our fears were
not groundless. One time, my sister,
Louisa
, was riding horseback, a short distance ahead of our slow-moving wagons.
She had a fine saddle horse, and liked to ride with my brothers,
Wesley
and
Allen
—who were driving the cattle—whenever our father would let her.
This time, my brothers happened to see the Indians.
They told my sister to ride as fast as she could to get to the wagons.
The Indians had been hiding in some brush, waiting for us to come up to
them.
When
my sister started back toward the wagons, they took after her.
Father saw her coming, and saw what was happening. He
jumped out of the wagon, and started on a run to meet her.
And, he was just in the nick of time, for as he grabbed the reins on one
side of her horse’s head, one of the Indians grabbed the other side.
In
a flash, my sister was off the horse and ran to get in the wagon.
If the Indian had beaten my father to her, they would have led her horse
on a run into the brush and taken her captive.
That was what they had intended to do, because that was one of their
tricks.
As
soon as the men saw what was taking place, they stopped the wagons, and got out
their guns, ready to fight. But,
when the Indians saw that, they fetched a blood-curdling whoop, and turned and
went away—disappearing in the brush.
That
was the last we saw of them, but it wasn’t long afterward that we knew there
was going to be more trouble. For
three days, we knew that our train was being followed and watched.
There were gulches and rocks and brush all along our road—and, during
these three days, now and then, the men of our train, or the boys who were
driving the loose stock, would see an Indian’s head raise up, out of a gulch,
or peer around some rocks or bru[s]h. And
then, on the third day, when we had stopped to prepare and eat our dinner, quite
a few of them appeared and came right into camp.
At
first, they pretended they had come in to try and trade for tobacco, bacon and
powder for their guns. But, the men
could see that they were taking in every-thing about our train—seeing what we
had, and how many of us were in our party, and all.
My
father and mother had two small, light, sheet-iron stoves.
These had been set up on the ground, a fire made in them, and Mother and
my older sisters and sister-in-la[w] were busy about them, getting our dinner
ready. We had lots of provisions
with us, and always had plenty of good hot food to eat.
Dough would be “set,” and bread baked in the stoves; and, we had lots
of dried fruits and cans of honey, for sweets.
I
remember watching the Indians as I helped take care of the smaller children.
The Indians were all stark-naked, except for a breech cloth.
They came right up to our stoves, shoving themselves in among our
women-folks, who were cookin, and kept peeking into the pots that were boiling,
whatever food that was being cooked for our meal.
Our
men-folks my father and big brothers—kept telling them to keep back out of the
way, and let the women get the cooking done.
They paid no attention to these requests, though.
Finally, one of our men couldn’t stand [.....it any longer...].
He picked up a piece of flat board, from one of our wagons, and [...used
it to hit one of the Indians who was stooping over to look at something in one
of the cooking pots on the stove.]
Immediately,
the whole lot of the Indians got on their horses and left the camp.
Then, because we had heard so many of the awful things they had done to
white people who had quarreled with them, or attacked them, we knew that our
train would now have trouble with them over this blow struck with that flat
board.
Our
men started getting the camp ready for a battle.
They drew the wagons up in a circle, forming a corral.
And, as other wagons came up, and heard what had happened, they joined
their wagons in our circle. My
brother,
Benton
, said there were thirty wagons altogether in our camp that afternoon and
evening.
In
this circle of wagons, was where all the women and children were told to stay,
if an attack was made. And, two men
were chose[n] to act as their guard—one at one end of the camp, the other at
the opposite end. The rest of the
men had to stay outside the circle to watch the stock, which had to be fed as
long as possible. We all knew that
the Indians would try to stampede our animals and drive them off, as soon as
they started to attack.
A
little later in the afternoon, just as we had expected, the Indians—now in a
large party, which they had probably gone away after—rushed upon our camp.
With whoops and yells, they started circling the camp, shooting with both
arrows and guns, though most of them used arrows.
And, besides shooting at our wagons, they set fire to the grass as they
circled about, and the men, who were guarding the cattle had to fight these
fires, as well as fight for their lives, and their stock.
As
soon as the fight began, all of us children were put into the false bottom of
one of the big wagons. Boards were
then laid across, over us, and bedding and provisions piled on top.
I had to take care of my little brother and sister, and nephews and
niece. It was so hot in there, I
thought I would smother. An[d],
outside, in between the yelling and shooting, I could hear women-folk crying and
praying. Some of them, too, were
molding bullets as the fight went on; my sister
Jane
was one of those who helped make these.
Finally,
the battle ended. An Indian, who had
been fighting from behind a rock, and peeping over it, was hit by a bullet,
fired by one of our men. [M]y
brother
Benton
saw him when he was hit, and told us that he seemed to jump up about six feet,
and then topple over backwards. Then,
as soon as that happened, all the other Indians stopped fighting, and we always
thought that the one we killed must have been their leader or chief—for they
galloped to him, and put his body across one of their horses.
Then, with a horrible whoop, they all rode away.
We looked for more trouble than ever that night, but they never came
back.
When
the battle was over, both men who had been guarding the wagons, were found to be
wounded. Both had been shot at with
guns. The men, who had been guarding
the stock weren’t hurt, although
Charles
Burton
’s horse had been shot from under him. He
had traded another horse for this much prettier one, from the Indians during
that visit earlier in the day. And,
they seemed to single him out to kill.
But,
loss of the horse didn’t make
Burton
stop fighting for more than a few seconds.
The men said that he got to his feet “cussing” as hard as he could,
and went right on shooting at the attackers.
After
the battle was over, we didn’t leave this camp, but stayed there that night.
There wasn’t much sleeping done, for everyone expected the Indians to
come back to fight again and try to wipe out our train, like we had heard
stories of them doing. But, they
didn’t bother us anymore.
Dr.
Matthews
Has His Say
The
next morning,
Dr.
Matthews
came to our camp, and took care of the two boys that had been wounded.
The
Matthews
’ party had been traveling just one day behind us.
He had tried to make our camp the day before—when he had seen Indians
following them, just as we had, and expected trouble with them—but had been
unable to make it. The Indians
attacked his party, that same day they did us, and he lost all of his stock.
Having these, may have been why the Indians did not try again to drive
off ours, our trains being so close together, as they were.
Dr.
Matthews
was a
nice-looking man, much younger than my father.
And, while he was there, another party came into our camp.
These were a woman, two little children, her husband and brother.
The Indians had taken everything from them.
Their wagons and horses and food. They
had just left one old white horse for the woman and two little children to ride.
These children were so small, I remember, that she had to hold them both
in her lap. And, the Indians had
taken away every bit of their clothing, leaving them bareheaded, and I can see
yet how their little faces were all blistered and the skin cracked open and
sore. The woman was bareheaded, too,
and the Indians had taken her shoes, and those of her husband and brother—and,
these two men were left afoot. The
sand was so hot that their feet were burned.
They had been trying for three days to catch up with us.
They
wanted my father to bring them on to
California
. They had no money—the Indians
had taken it, too. So, my father
told them, he would take them in and feed them, and make room for the wom[a]n
and children in the wagons, and bring them to
California
, but that the two men, would have to walk and help with the cattle.
The men said they wouldn’t do it. And,
when they said that, my father told them what he thought of them.
Dr.
Matthews
was there yet, and he heard all that was said.
And, when my father went to pay him for the care of the boys’ wounds,
he said, “
Mr.
Helm
, you don’t owe me a cent—for telling these men what you thought of them!”
So, they got in with some other party besides ours.
They were two big, stout men, and it looked like they ought to have been
glad of the offer my father made them, as they had nothing at all, and with us,
they would always have had plenty to eat, and been well taken care of, for my
father was a kind and just man, thought he would not let anyone put anything
over on him.
There
were other anxious times for us, though. And,
we saw lots of things that made us sad. Crossing
the
Rockies
, a woman in another party we had met, died and had to be buried there where our
wayside camp had been made. And,
further on, when we were getting nearer to
California
, one of the youngest children of our train, the Kesterson’s little boy, was
stricken with fever and died. He had
been the pet of our train, and it was one of the saddest moments of our whole
journey, when he was buried there on the prairie, his little grave marked only
by an oak sapling, and rocks heaped on the mound to protect it from burrowing
wild animals.
We
did not drive our wagons across the grave, as I have heard many of the trains
did to keep the place a secret from the Indians.
My
sister
Louisa
helped to take care of the little Kesterson boy during his long illness.
In this way, she contracted the fever, herself.
And, six weeks after we got to
Stockton
—on October 5th, 1856—she passed away.
There
is one camp too, in
Nevada
, that I have never forgotten. We
reached the place one evening, after dark. We
drove our wagons out to one side of the trail and made our camp.
It wasn’t until the next morning that we found out we had camped on
some graves. It gave us all a
terrible feeling. But, we had not
disturbed the mounds very badly. I
remember, that they were in a clump of pine trees, the first pines we had seen.
My
father...headed directly for
Stockton
, for by this time my sister
Louisa
was so terribly sick, he wanted to get her to where there was a doctor as soon
as possible. I remember watching the
wagons of the others driving off and leaving us to take another direction.
But, while we all felt sad at parting from our kin and our friends, I can
see now, that our anxiety over my sister kept us from feeling the separation as
deeply as we would have otherwise. It
was also the things connected with her illness and death which always remained
clearest in my me[m]ory or our arrival at
Stockton
and our stay there. While it was
heartbreaking to give her up—for she was a young lady, and we all loved her so
much—it did not seem so bad as it would have been, had she died on the lonely
plains, like that poor woman, or the little Kesterson boy.
We could always remember her as being buried in a nice place, in the
Stockton
cemetery.
When
she was gone, we again moved on—the last lap of our journey—going from
Stockton
to
Merced
County
.
On
these final three days of our long, tedious journey, we crossed a number of
creeks that had no bridges over them, as they do now.
One night, we stayed with a friend of my father’s at the
Merced River
. They treated us so nice, and the
next morning, the woman fixed us a big lunch for us to take along with us that
day, so that we did not have to stop and cook.
On the third day, we reached Mariposa Creek, where my brother
Henry
was living, and near where the
Savannah
schoolhouse is now.
Here
my father rented the Fitzhugh house for us to live in, until he bought a place
from a man named
Vance
. From the Vance place—upon which
my father built a house, which is still standing, although it has been moved to
a different location near there, [m]y father and mother moved to White Rock,
Mariposa County, and settled on what is now called the “Jim Helm Ranch.”
And, it was here, in 1876, that my father passed away, and where my
mother also died, almost ten years later in 1886.
The[y]
were always such a happy and devoted couple.
I do not ever remember hearing them quarrel.
And, both of them were always so good and thoughtful with us children.
And, looking back, I know it was their love and kindness and forethought
for us children that made the long trip across the plains one of so little
hardship, actually, even in the midst of almost hourly dangers.
Three
years after arriving in
California
,
Frances
, at the ripe old age of 13, married
Henry
McClure
in a double-wedding ceremony with her sister.
Frances
and her husband settled in Mariposa Creek, where they raised four children,
before moving to White Rock. By
1871, most of the Helms (including my great grandfather,
Charles
Taylor
Helm
) had migrated to the White Rock/Mariposa area.
Frances
lived to be
91.
Remnants
of the old Helm homestead still exist at White Rock, although much of the rock
itself was removed for use during World War II.
There is also a family cemetery there established by
Jacob
Lewis
when his infant daughter died.
Frances
was only one
of
Allen
and
Elizabeth
’s 13 children. Not all of their
children reached adulthood. In 1857,
when Allen sold his good friend, Nicholas Turner, 320 acres in Plainsburg, he
stipulated that ½ acre be set aside as a family
cemetery. This cemetery, nestled in
the center of an almond orchard, is known as the
Helm-Turner
Family
Cemetery
and it is now the final resting place of
Allen
’s family as well as descendants of the Turner clan.
Today,
the legacy of the Helm family is still very much evident throughout the Mariposa
and
Le Grande
vicinities. The Helm children
married into other pioneer families, thus making the
Lewises
, Prestons, Probascos, Turners, and Westfalls, other branches on my family tree.
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