12/29/1836 To ?
Barnett was the youngest brother of Benjamin Simpson. The following is a newspaper article from the Oregon Daily Journal, from Portland, Oregon, published on March 18, 1925, about his experiences crossing the plains in a covered wagon on their journey to Oregon in 1846.
This newspaper article was one of three printed in serial form. I was unable to find copies of the other two articles. However, in early 2004, at Champoeg State Park, just south of Portland, Oregon, I came across the book below that contained Barnett's entire account of the crossing of the Oregon Trail in 1846.
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From Ric Costales we received another account of the same trip west written by J. T. Simpson, Benjamin Simpson's son by his first wife Elzira.
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From
“Conversations with Pioneer Men” by Fred Lockley, compiled by Mike Helm,
Published by Rainy Day Press, 1996.
Barnet Simpson
Pioneer of 1846
"I'm not
figuring on getting married
or running
for
office, so
1 might
as well
tell you
the exact
truth
about my
age and
anything else
you care
to
ask me
about. I
was born
in
child
of a
family of
11. So
as not to give a one-
sided
picture, I
am going
to tell
you the
things
that
are not
creditable about
myself as
well as
the
things that are.
"For example,
I might
tell you
my most
vivid
recollection
of our
trip across
the plains
in 1846.
I
was going
on ten
when we
crossed the
plains
to
the
at
St. Joe
and camped
for a
few days
to let
the
emigrants
gather and
to organize
the wagon
train.
"My oldest
sister, Eleanor,
married a
man
named
John Anderson.
Her son
John was
a year
and
a half older than I,
in spite of the fact that
1
was his
uncle. My
father told me to look up
a
bridle that had been mislaid, so
John and I started
to
look for
it. While
looking under
one of
the
wagons
John saw
a stone
jug. He pulled
out the
cork
and smelled
it, and
said, 'This
is whiskey.
Did
you ever drink any corn liquor, Barnet?'
"My father
was a
Primitive Baptist
preacher
and
was very
strict, so 1 had never tasted
liquor.
I
confessed that
I had
never drunk
any whiskey
and
was curious
as to
its taste.
John tipped
up
the
lug and
took a
swallow and
handed it
to me.
I
didn't like
to be a
quitter, so
I took a swallow.
It
nearly strangled
me, but
I pronounced
it mighty
good.
"John thought
it would
be funny
if he
could
get
me drunk,
so he
suggested that
we drink
some
more.
We took
a generous
drink and then
resumed
our
search for
the bridle.
We found
the jug
in
the
middle of
the afternoon,
and by
had
pretty finished
what whiskey
there had
been
in
it. We
went back
every few
minutes to
take
another
drink. John would tip the jug up and
pretend
to
take a
big drink,
and would
pass it
to me
and
urge
me to drink heartily.
By
walk.
1 fell in a stupor.
"John had
drunk enough
to make
him drowsy.
He
sat by
the camp
fire. He
had a
new hunting
coat
my sister
had made
for him.
A spark
jumped
out
on the
tail of
his new
hunting coat
and he
was
so fuddled
he didn't
notice it
till someone
saw
the smoke,
and by
that time
the whole
back
of
the coat was burned off.
"They saw
he was
drunk and
they knew
I
had
been with him,
so they began to look for me.
Presently
they found
me, lying
where I
had fallen.
They
carried me
to our
wagon and
worked over
me
all night.
I foamed
at the mouth and had con-
vulsions
and they
thought I
was going
to die.
The
first
thing I
remember was
along about
the
next morning.
I heard
my brother
Thomas, who
was
not going
to cross the
plains with
us, telling
Mother
goodbye and
saying, 'Don't
worry. Mother.
Barnet
is going
to pull
through all
right. Give
him
a tablespoon
of whiskey
every couple
of hours
till
he sobers
up.'
"I rolled
over toward
him and
said, 'I
have
had
plenty. I
don't want
any more.
As Iong
as
I
live, never
another drop
of whiskey
will ever
go
down my
throat.' That
was nearly
80 years
ago,
and from
that day
to this
I have never tasted
liquor
of any kind or description.
"My father,
William Simpson,
was born
in
was
Mary Kimsey,
was born
in
remember
what year
my father
and mother
were
married,
but Ben
was their
first child,
and he
was
born in
was
21. Mother
was born
in 1797
and Father
in
1793.
Father was
53 when
he started
across the
plains
and Mother
was 49.
They were
considered
old
people. They
called Father
'Uncle Billy',
and
Mother,
'Aunt Polly'.
My brother
Ben, who
was
28
when we
started for
of
the wagon
train. Ben
married Elzirah Jane Wisdom
in
1839, when
he was
21. They
had one
son, John
T.
Simpson. She
died not
long after
her baby
was
born.
My brother
married Nancy
Cooper in
1843.
When
we crossed
the plains
in 1846,
to Ben
and
his
second wife,
two more
boys had
been born-
Sylvester
C. and Samuel L.
Sam was a baby, having
been
born about
six months
before we
started for
book
of poems
entitled The
Gold-Gated West.
I
guess
his "Beautiful Willamette" is his best known.
"Our whole
family came
to
except
my brother
Thomas, who
did not
cross the
plains
till 1852.
Tom married
Rosena Buff
back
in
see
if we
like it
and if
we did
he would
sell out
and
come.
"When we
started across
the plains
all our
neighbors
told Mother
what a
dangerous trip
it
was
and how we were sure to be
killed by Indians
or
drowned or
die of
cholera or
be run
over by
buffaloes.
Mother, who
had heard
how they
buried
people
who died
while crossing
the plains,
in a
blanket
by the
side of the
road, decided she
would
be
forehanded, so
the winter
before we
left she
carded
and spun
and wove
a lot
of cloth,
dyed
it
and cut
it up
and made
a shroud
apiece for
everyone
in the
family. No,
we didn't get to use
a
single one
of them.
I think
she cut
them up
after
we got
to Oregon
and made
clothes out
of
them.
I was
more interested
in the
hunting shirt
she
made for me than I was in my shroud.
"It will
be 80
years ago
next spring
that
we
started with
our ox
teams and
covered wagons
for
on
our six
months' trip
across the
plains. My
brother
Ben was
captain of
the train
and he
was
the
right man in the right place.
"The only fatality we
had was one man killed.
Two
men went in together to come to
pooled
their resources
and bought
a wagon,
a couple
of
yoke of
oxen and
supplies for
the trip.
They
didn't
get along any too well. One
night the driver
of
the outfit
lagged behind.
They camped
about
three
miles from
the rest
of the
train. The
next
day
the driver caught up with us. When
they asked
him
where his
partner was
he said,
'The Indians
must
have killed
him during
the night.
I buried
him
this morning by the side of the road.'
"We had not
had any trouble with the Indians,
so
most of
the folks
in the
train thought
he had
killed
his partner
for his
share in
the outfit.
No,
we didn't
do anything
about it.
There was
nothing
we could
do. We
were in
a hurry to press
on
to Oregon,
and even
if we had
turned back
and
dug
his partner
up we
couldn't have
proved that
some
prowling Indian
hadn't shot
him, so
we went
on,
but the
man whose
partner had
been wiped
out
so mysteriously
wasn't very
popular with
the
rest
of the folks in the wagon train.
"The last man
to join
our train
before we
pulled
out for the long trip westward from
the rendez-
vous
across from
St. Joe
was Uncle
Ben Munkers.
The
train rarely
had the
same number
of wagons
in
it two
days together.
It averaged
about 100
wagons.
Sometimes some
of ;-he party would straggle
and
drop back
with another
train, or
hurry up
and
get ahead,
later dropping
back to
join us.
Lots
of folks
crossing the
plains imagined
the train
ahead
or the
train back
of the
one they
were in
must
have more
considerate and
congenial people
in
it. They
usually found
out they
were mistaken
when
they dropped
back or
forged ahead
to join
the
other train.
Some folks always have good neigh-
bors.
Others always complain about having bad
neighbors.
I
guess it
is the
people themselves
more
than
the neighbors that are at fault.
"One incident of the
trip that I greatly enjoyed
was
having a
band of
several hundred
Indians
draw
up across
the road
and refuse
to let us
co
on
unless we
would pay
for passing
through their
country
They were
nearly naked
and all-painted
up.
They danced and whooped and scared the women
and
the little
children half to death.
My brother
Ben
gave the
word for every man able to
bear arms
to
get his
gun and
march toward
the Indians
ready
to
shoot if
they made
any hostile
move. They
gave
way
and let us through, for they saw our men meant
business.
"The chief,
who spoke
some English,
said,
You
scare all
our game
away. Won't
each man
give
us a
present of
a charge
of powder
apiece
to
prove you
are our
friends?' My
brother told
the
men to
pour out
enough powder
from their
horns
for
a charge for each of the Indians.
"While they
were doing
this an
antelope ran
by.
Half a
dozen of
the Indians
leaped on
their
horses
and took
after it.
They dropped
it within
100
yards. They
shot it
with arrows.
Most of
the
band were
armed with
bows, though
some had
guns.
"Did we
have any
fights on
the plains?
I
saw
only one. A woman claimed that
another woman
in
the train
was trying
to vamp
her husband.
The
lady who
was doing
the vamping
had very
abundant
and beautiful
hair, so
the wife
of the
man
who was
more or
less willing
to be vamped
sailed
into her.
It was
a lively
fight while
it
lasted.
They pulled
hair, scratched,
yelled, and
cried
and fought
like a
couple of
cats. The
lady
with
the beautiful
hair had
a lot
less of
it when
the
fight was declared a draw.
"We had
to stop
one day
to let
a herd
of
buffaloes
go by
along the
they
came to
us we could
hear a
subdued roar like
the
sound of
the surf
at
shook
the ground.
There were
thousands of
them.
They
ran along
paying no
attention to
our wagon
train,
though our
oxen were
mighty restless
at
the
smell, the sound, and the sight of them.
"All I
need to
do today,
nearly 80
years later,
is
to shut
my eyes
and I
can see
the vast,
empty
plains
with their
rolling land
waves. I
can see
the
wagons come
to a
stop, see
the children
pile
out
of the
wagons while
the men
folks unyoke
the
oxen
and all the women scatter as soon as the train
comes
to a stop, to gather their aprons
full of sun-
dried
buffalo chips to cook the coffee and bacon.
"What did
we eat
for supper?
Bread cooked
in
a Dutch
oven, or
cornbread with
coffee, bacon,
beans,
and dried
peaches or
apples. We
had some
cows
along, so
we usually
had milk.
Sometimes
we
had buffalo or antelope meat
in place of bacon.
Sometimes
the women
folks rustled
sagebrush or
willow
wood in
place of buffalo chips,
but the chips
made
a quick, hot fire, and proved very satisfactory.
"I told
you I
saw only
one fight
while crossing
the
plains. Well,
I'll stick
to that
statement,
but
there were
a lot of fights
I was in, but I was
too
busy fighting
to stop
and be
an eye-witness
to
them. The
Burnett boy
was a
year older
than
I,
but I
was a
mite larger.
My father,
being
a
Primitive Baptist
preacher, had
taught me
to
turn
the other ' cheek.
My mother had also impressed
upon
me that boys who expect to be gentlemen don't
settle
their differences
with their
fists. The
Burnett
boy
found he
could lick me,
so hardly a day went
by
that he didn't make my life a burden.
I could
hardly
call my
soul my
own. He generally
caught
me
where my
folks wouldn't
see us
fighting. I
put
up a
half-hearted fight,
usually trying
to avoid
punishment
more than to try to hurt him.
"One day
my mother
saw him
licking me.
She
pulled him
off of me
and said to me,
'The time
has
come for
you to
take your
own part.
I want
you
to thrash
this boy,
and do
a thorough
job.'
I
could hardly
believe my
ears. I
hesitated, and
she
said, 'You
can take
your choice.
Either you
whip
this bully
within an
inch of
his life
or I
will
give you
a worse
licking than
he ever
gave
you.'
"I knew
my mother
was a
woman of
her word,
so
I waded
in, and
what I
did to
that boy
was
plenty.
After that
all I
had to
do was
double
up
my fists
and scowl
at him
and he
would beat
it.
"One of
the things
I remember
very distinctly
is
our stopping
at Independence
Rock. The
men
and
women gathered
around the
rock and
read the
names
of the
emigrants who
had registered
during
the
preceding two or three years. Then
they scratched
their
own names
on the
rock. Some
of the
men
painted
their names
on with tar from the tar buckets
that
hung from
the back
axles of
the wagons.
1
doubt if
there are
many left
of those
who wrote
their
names on
Independence Rock
79 years
ago.
There
are a few
of us
left, but
when 1
call the
roll
of my
former campmates
who crossed
the plains
with
me in
1846, not
many are
here to
answer the
roll
call.
"You can't
spend six
months with
a couple
of
yoke of
oxen in
a covered
wagon crossing
the
plains
without having
lots of
peculiar adventures
and
misadventures that
stick in
your mind.
My
father
and Uncle
Ben Munkers
were the
oldest men
in
the wagon
train. My
brother Ben,
who was
captain
of the
wagon train,
let them
take turns
leading
the train with their wagons, so they
wouldn't
have
to swallow
so much dust.
If there was
any
wind
the drivers of the wagons in the back swallowed
their
share of
dust, for
the oxen
kicked up
the
fine
alkali dust
till the
wagons were
in a
heavy
fog.
"One day
when my
father's wagon
was in
the
lead a
couple of
young Indians
met us
and
one
of them threw
up his
hand quickly
as a
signal
for
us to
stop. This
scared our
oxen, and
they
bolted.
They ran
down the
hill, turned
into the
river,
and splashed
through to
the other
side.
The
Munkers oxen
also became
panic-stricken and
followed
our wagon.
Mrs. Munkers,
with her
son
Jimmy,
six years
old, was
riding on the front seat
when
the oxen bolted. She was a
cripple. Wherever
she
went she
had to
carry her
chair and,
also,
hobble
on
crutches. She
was so
frightened that
she
grabbed Jimmy
up under one
arm, reached back
and
got her
camp chair
under the
other, jumped
out
of the
wagon, as
it was
going full
tilt, ran
as
hard as
she could
to a
hundred yards
or so,
and
then, realizing
that she
was a
cripple and
couldn't
walk, she
put down
the chair
and sat
down.
"The oxen
tried to
climb the
bank on
the
other
side of
the river,
but the
wagon turned
over,
so
they got
over their
scare and
waited for
the
men
to come and fix things.
"Coming across
the plains
I usually
rode one
horse
and led
another, or
rode and
herded the
stock.
One day
I was
riding a
big American
mare
and
leading her
mate. I
went on
ahead of
the
train,
but finally
decided I
had better
backtrack
and
join it.
I rode back 12 or 15 miles without
seeing
any sight
of the
train. I
finally came
to
another
train and
asked what
had become
of the
Simpson
train. The
captain told me Simpson's train
was
about 10 miles ahead of them and I had better
hurry
if I
wanted to
get there
before night.
It
was
growing cold,
so he
loaned me
a big
coat,
for
I was
in shirtsleeves.
I retraced
my way
till
I
saw where
our wagon
train had
left the
road
to
camp on
a small
stream some
distance from
the
road.
It was about
dusk. My mother was
spreading
the
table cloth
on the ground ready to
serve supper.
She
said, 'Where
have you
been, Barnet?
I haven't
seen
you since
breakfast time.'
My brother
Ben
had
missed me
and, being
afraid something
had
happened
to me, he and three other men
had struck
out
to look
for me.
They didn't
get back till
long
after
"When we came
to the Sweetwater,
Ben decided
to
have the
train lay
over Friday,
Saturday and
Sunday
for washing
clothes, repairing
wagons and
drying
out supplies
that had
got wet.
We had
three
preachers in
our train.
My father
was a
Primitive
Baptist, Elder
McBride was
a Campbellite,
and
I have
forgotten what
the other preacher was,
but
each of
them preached
while we
laid over
on
the
Sweetwater.
"The ox
drivers decided
to get
a little
of
the
dust off, so they made up a crowd to
go swimming.
With
my nephew
John Anderson,
who was
about a
year
and a
half my
senior, I
followed them
and
went
into
the shallow
water. When
the men
had
dressed
and gone,
John and
1 decided
to learn
to
swim. John
said, 'We
can't learn
to swim
in
shallow
water, so we'll go where it's deep.'
"1
said. 'Go
ahead. I'll
follow you.
1 don't
care
if the water is a thousand feet deep.'
"We
had hardly
got out
into the
current till
John
was washed
into a
deep hole.
He called
out,
'Give
me your hand, quick, or I'll drown.'
" I started
toward him,
but before I got there
the
current had
caught both
of us
and we
were
washed
downstream. 1
can remember
yet seeing
John's
head, first
under water
and then
coming
into
sight again
as he
whirled round
and round
in
a whirlpool.
The next
thing I
remember I
was
washed
up on
a sandbar
and John
was climbing
up
the bank to go back to the train and tell Mother
I
was drowned.
We made
a solemn
compact not
to
tell our
folks about
our narrow
escape till
we
got
to the
"When we
got to
Fort Hall,
some of the
folks
in
the train
took the
road to
Sutter's Fort
in Cal-
ifornia.
Among them
was my
brother-in-law, Alva
Kimsey.
He came
north to
year.
When gold
was discovered
at Sutler's
Fort
he
took the
back trail
and returned,
but he
didn't
have
much luck.
"At Fort
Hall my
father exchanged
all of
the
bacon
and flour
and cornmeal
he could
spare for
an
order on
Dr. McLoughlin
for a
similar amount
at
across
the Cascades.
We came
by the
which
had just
been opened,
and it
was a
terror.
I
guess none of the emigrants who came down
Hill
with men
pulling on
the ropes
to keep the wagons
from
running over
the oxen
will ever
forget
Hill.
"We wintered
at
Father
leased a
place and
put five
acres in
wheat.
We
had a big crop. My brother
James and I tramped
it
out with
oxen. In
the fall
of 1847
Father took
up
a donation
land claim in
the
had
18 inches
of snow
that winter.
Father had
no
hay, so
he fed
our cattle
boiled wheat.
We
lost
all of them but one cow and three steers.
"I went
to school
in the
winter of
1846 to
Herman
Higgins, a
cooper. He
was a
son-in-law
of
Reverend Vincent
Shelling, a
Baptist preacher.
Higgins
taught school,
as he
was a
cripple, and
this
was about
his only
qualification as
a teacher.
He
used to
make tubs
and barrels
during school
hours.
If we
children laughed
he would
look up
from
his work
and say,
'Larn your
lessons. Tend
to
business there
and larn
your lessons.'
I stayed
overnight
once at
his home.
They had
no dishes
and
no furniture.
We sat
on the
floor, and when
it
came time
for supper
his wife
stirred up
some
dough
and gave
us each
a sharp
stick on
which
we
put the
dough and held it over the fire in the
fireplace to bake.
"My first teacher in the
Darst.
I was
married
150-acre
farm in
the
to
there for 25
years."