Welcome To The Bullpen
CHARITY’S GRAVE
Vincent J Maranto
On the old stage road between Bozeman and Helena, Montana, as it crosses the Crow Creek Divide, is a little square fence, enclosing a grass covered mound. The surrounding country is rugged, like thousands of places in this country of mountains. A limestone ridge rises abruptly on the west, while a quartz-site reef on the east, slopes to the Missouri river, two miles away.
The fence around the lonely grave is timeworn, yet in repair; rough-edged boulders lie thickly upon the ground, while down the slope, a little stream of mountain water trickles its way to the river.
The denizen as he passes murmurs “Charity’s grave”the stranger’s curiosity is aroused and he inquires, why this lonely resting place?
Carefully kept is the fence and none deface or profane the silent enclosure, for there is a sanctity surrounding the place. Pathetic sentiment, born of human kindness, is deeply stirred by a recital of the incidents of seventy years ago, which placed among the annals of pioneer life, the history of a female hermit. As deeds of kindness never die and love’s mistakes by virtue purified, are ever forgiven, so with “Charity”“Her honor rooted in dishonor stands, and faith unfaithful keeps her falsely true.”
“Bill” Garbut was a husky southern soldier who escaped harm from shot and shell to be made prisoner in 1863. His parole was offered and accepted on the battle field. Seeing no future worth his waiting for, as the outcome of the war, he determined to go to the unexplored Northwest. He was jolly, energetic, resourceful man and soon organized a party which started from St. Joseph, Missouri, in the spring of 1864.
Bill was elected Captain of the party, which consisted of thirteen men, four covered wagons, drawn by oxen, domestic utensils, saddle horses, and the necessary supply of provisions for the long and hazardous journey. When the thirteen men had been secured, Bill had said he wanted to defy fate, for he believed all the bad luck possible had already been given him. His peculiar mental condition was that of resolute action, recognizing no weak place, but implying a strength which included desperation.
The first two weeks of the journey had been exasperatingly annoying. Each day, some accident occurred which delayed the train and stretched the heroic nerves of Bill to the utmost tension. He already regretted the fateful number thirteen, and was inwardly praying for an opportunity to enlarge or lessen it. It came presently.
It was April second, according to the marks made on the wagon tongue. Garbut’s party was seated on the prairie eating their midday meal. The yellow bacon had been fried to a crisp, the coffee was black, and the unleavened biscuit were hard. It had been raining steadily for several days. A rift in the clouds now let the sunshine through, apparently for the purpose of cheering up the disconsolate thirteen members of the party.
Bill arose from his thankless meal and walked over to a small hill, to survey the country side. The first object that attracted his attention was a horse and a rider approaching the wagon. He took off his hat and waving it, hallowed to the “boys” in camp, “Here comes our fourteenth man.” He was mistaken, however, for it was not a man. His eagerness to greet the stranger was turned into profound astonishment as he saw approaching a girl, scarcely eighteen years of age, poorly clad, with shoes out at the toes, and a pinched and painful face. As she came near, he removed his hat and stood in an expectant mood, waiting for her question. When it came, though short, it was a puzzling one.
“Can I go with you?” she said. Bill was dumbfounded. “Ye--s, n--o, that is,--the fact is, Miss, we are thirteen men in this crowd, no women, and every darned one of us unlucky.”
“I may bring you luck, “she said, “as I never had any myself.” “No”, said Bill, “You do not understand the dangers, the vicissitudes of this trip. We are going to that vast region of the Rocky Mountains, known as Idaho. It lays through deserts, swamps and mountain ranges,---there are swollen rivers to ford, trackless deserts to cross, and hostile savages to avoid. It may mean death to us; you cannot take the chances.”
While Captain Garbut was eloquently arguing against the girl’s proposition to become one of the party; she was busy unsaddling her pony. This done, she turned to him with an appealing look. “ I am poor, friendless, homeless, parentless, every tie on earth is severed. My father and brother were killed in the war, --my mother has since died, and my false lover has deserted me. My going with you, may be my death---my not going, certainly means this.”
Garbut looked at the pleading face and mentally calculated the helpless form before him. He could see difficulties ahead but that human nature that ever turns toward the weak; prevailed. He told her to come into camp. Directions were given for her privacy; and with an abandonment born of incongruous and inverted social relations, this flotsam on the billowy sea of human unrest, found a temporary abiding place. She became in fact, and integral part of the party----the fourteenth member, and by common consent, they called her “Charity.”
The journey was long and tedious. Many close calls for the entire party occurred. Incidents of interest, that would make a volume, were they related, happened in the five months experience of Garbut’s party. One however, must be told, for it wrought a revolution in a human soul. Charity gave birth to a child. It lived but a day, and was buried in the sands of Wyoming.
From her convalescence the girl became a woman--- a dangerous, desperate, wicked woman. In her inner soul she tore off the mask of social life. The conventionalities, the hypocrisies, the unreal in human nature, she rendered into shreds. Her life henceforth was an open book, written full of hopeless anguish and unutterable grief. The contemplation of her wrong had made a fearful wound in her heart, which healed, leaving a frightful scar. Yet, contradictory as the unscientific mind always is, she became the apotheosis of human kindness. Nursing the sick, rendering aid in all conditions of the journey, learning to shoot and to recklessly ride, when the Placer mines on Indian Creek, now in Broadwater County, Montana, were reached, she had proven her heir-ship to the name of “Charity.”
The combined store and saloon on Indian Creek, which furnished the camp with necessities and luxuries in exchange for gold dust, had been named by the miners, Hogum. Hogum was not an insinuation, for these men did not deal in innuendos, but by common consent, this became the name.
The camp contained about forty men, differing from all other classes of men in the world, except other placer miners. Hard working, sturdy, honest and reckless---gathered by a common incentive and possessing common instincts---these men courted destiny by adventure, poverty by extravagance, and always took a chance to win or loose on the turn of a card. Their love of justice was a sentiment as strong as life. No social distinctions were recognized. The unfortunate were not ostracized. No social caste existed, except against those cardinal crimes, theft and murder. An equity which took into account the frailties of human nature, was a market characteristic of an aggregation of men who have permanently disbanded.
Hogum’s population was enjoying its Sunday, August---1864 in the usual diversified manner. Some were washing; some were in the saloon, playing stud poker, while others lounged lazily in the pleasant sunshine. A sudden awakening to a matter of new interest occurred, as Garput’s party drove slowly into camp.
Five months on the road had exhausted the supplies, worn out the wagons, and forced the cattle to a last stage of decline. The party; however, were in excellent spirits, and by unanimous consent determined to disband here. The goods and chattels were divided up, Garbut selecting a share for “Charity,” who was soon domiciled in a log cabin, and a part of the community. It wasn’t long until a new report of “rich diggings” carried most of the population of Hogum off on a stampede further west. Bill Garbut was among the number, and “Charity” never saw her friend again.
About this time the varied phases of Charity’s character began to be known. She was the doctor, the nurse, the tailor, and washer-woman of the camp. Often times she prevented serious quarrels by an interference that no man dare resist. Ever ready to assist the unfortunate; kindness was her chief virtue and work her religion. The miners built her a cabin on the stage road. This became a hostelry for the traveler and a hospital for the sick. As time passed, the fame of this peculiar woman became wide spread. In living for others, she came to be regarded with a devotion and kindness that confidence and friendship alone inspire. To the most beautiful sentiment in human existence; an unbounded sympathy, is due the last great tragedy on the stage of her life.
One day a saloon fight resulted in the shooting of a stranger, who, injured seriously, was not killed. He was carried to the home of Charity to be nursed. His vigorous constitution with careful, and tender nursing, quickly made him a convalescent. He gained strength rapidly and was soon strong enough to leave his enforced hospital.
George Stanhope, for this was his name, was a medium sized man with light complexion, smooth features and blue eyes. His intellectual faculties were large, and except for a weak chin and thick lower lip, would be called handsome. His features indicated impulsiveness, generosity, nerve and even recklessness. He might betray a friend, or offer his life for him, as the occasion suggested.
While regaining his strength, his voluptuous nature had suggested the relation of love between Charity and himself. He determined to test the accuracy of his speculations by offering to become a life partner to this peculiar woman. In the event of refusal, he would give her what money he possessed.
When at length the time came that he must leave, he stood before this imperious, stone-cut featured woman and said: “Charity, you have nursed me back to life----my existence at this time is entirely owing to your tender nursing and gracious care---I can repay you only in part---my life, my love, my all, is at your disposal.” His ardent appeal was gaining in warmth and eloquence, but became suddenly arrested by the transformation that was taking place before him. The woman, Charity, was heightening, widening, apparently burning with internal fire. Her eyes were like shafts of writhen lighting, yet there shone within their depths, an expression of anguish, pity and love that seemed to combine the very elements of Heaven and Hell. “George,” she said, “You are a coward, a base, contemptible cur, a disgrace to manhood, a crime in creation. Your name is too well known to me. You wrecked my life---stole from my heart its love, from my life its light, from by brain, its ambition. God has thrown your across my path a second time. If remorse could operate there is no conscience, you would die a slow suicide.”
She had snatched a pistol from his belt and during the storm of her passion, had kept it steadily pointed at him. Slowly she lowered it, and while a look of unutterable agony spread over her features, she pressed the muzzle to her own head and fired. Her death was instantaneous.
George Stanhope picked up the smoking pistol, saddled his horse and rode to Hogum’s only saloon. He called everyone there to the bar. Throwing his pocket-book down, he told the bar-keeper to “set up” Whiskey as long as the money lasted. “Boys,” he said, after draining a glass, “ I was born in Missouri---I have been reckless, a coward and a villain----I have basely betrayed a confiding girl whom you all know as “Charity.” She is up yonder in the house. Go to her. My atonement is this,” and he drew his “gun” and shot himself dead.
The miners buried “Charity” up on the hill. The conflicts of her life are typified by the storm cloud that gathers and is broken by the sun----the lighting that strikes the solid rock and is lost---by the snow that covers and smoothes the rugged face of nature.
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