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Mark Schweickart
Dave - Your "Fremont on the Rockies" stamp perked my interest. As you may remember, I wrote a one-woman play featuring Jessie Benton Fremont (John's wife) looking back on her amazing life. For those of you unacquainted with this bit of John's flag-waving in the Rockies, here's a snippet from my play where she explains this event to her audience:
In those days, the Oregon territory was shared jointly by the U.S. and Great Britain. And, of course, all of California was part of Mexico. Everything between the Missouri River and the Rockies was thought to be a great barren desert. A new expedition needed to be mounted, and this time, not just to the upper reaches of the Missouri, but all the way to the South Pass, that lowest point between the Central and Southern Rocky Mountains. Getting to it and through it would be crucial to what would come to be known as the Oregon Trail. So his job was to properly document a route to the Pass.
John wanted to be careful not to suggest this was a military operation by leading with an American flag, which he thought might provoke the Indians. So instead, he designed, and I made for him, a flag that we felt was more appropriate. It had the alternating stripes we are familiar with, but in the rectangular corner it had stars swirling above and below an eagle that clutched an Indian peace-pipe in its talons. He wanted to make it clear that he was coming in peace.
And so, off he went... leaving behind his now-pregnant wife with her haunted nightmares and fear of never seeing him again... not that I showed this side of myself to him at the time.
When he arrived at the Rockies, he could not resist seeing our flag planted on what he thought was the highest peak even though it would mean many days of detour, and privation for himself and a few select men who would make the ill-equipped climb. But he did it nonetheless.
It was not as simple as strolling to a mountain top; it involved, days of arduous climbing without having the right tools for such an ascent. Nor were the men, John especially, prepared for what that kind of elevation does to the body. He became terribly dizzy, and his normal friendly disposition became strident and irrational. Then when they finally arrived just below the pinnacle, John excitedly leapt to the top, lost his footing, and began sliding, just barely catching himself before plummeting over a 500 foot cliff-face.
Even though I am truly proud that my homemade flag waved for a few minutes on top of a 13,500 foot peak, I would have preferred that he and the flag had never gone aloft. Does it not seem that men all too often turn back into little boys recklessly craving adventure?
Jessie peers out into her audience and self-mockingly says: “Oh, your husband died doing what, sliding off a mountain top waving a homemade flag? Hmm.”
He made it back to me two weeks before our Lily was born. I remember waking the next morning after his return, again alone in my bed. I looked around, and he was not in the room. My head fell back. Oh no, had I only dreamt of his return? Was I asleep now or awake? I opened and closed my eyes several times to make sure I was awake. I was now convinced that he had not yet returned, that I had indeed been dreaming, but as I began to lift myself up against the headboard into a sitting position, I saw the flag, our flag, spread out over me as if it were a bedcover. Suddenly the door opened, and John entered with a tray of coffee. He said, “Oh, you’re awake, good.”
“Good” was right. That was certainly one of the good times. Le bon temps.
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