“Let’s put her in the quartermaster’s ambulance. Her constitution can’t take the jostling of her family’s wagon. And I’ll be better able to keep my eye on her.”
Drew frowned. “Will she improve?”
The doctor shrugged. “She’d be best off with a rest of a few weeks, maybe months. Even then, she’s near death and might not be saved at all.”
They rode on through the largest sagebrush bushes Will had seen yet. The sage slowed the expedition further, as the worst of it had to be chopped before the wagons could roll over it. They couldn’t stop without water and grass, and so they pushed on. They traveled twenty-eight miles, lasting from early morning until after the sun set.
Finally, they reached a spring that burst forth from the side of a mountain about fifty miles away from the Warner Mountain peak. Water flowed into a grassy ravine wide enough for the wagons to pass, with sufficient bunch grass for the animals.
“What say we call this Isaac’s Springs?” Drew proclaimed. “As a compliment to our guide.”
To the relief of all, they were able to make a relatively pleasant camp near the spring.
August 14, 1864. Camped at Isaac's Springs after trekking 28 miles. Klamath scouts left us. Drew is worried, so I am, too.
Chapter 42: Telegrams from Boston
Throughout August, Mac occupied his days with his business affairs. One day, he traveled to Portland to meet with William Ladd. There, Mac renewed his expression of interest in a potential bank partnership with Ladd. He described his father’s and brother’s banking enterprise in Boston, and Ladd was suitably impressed.
“Can we call on your family to be informal partners in our venture?” Ladd asked. “Of course, banks can only be chartered within a state, even with the new National Banking Act. But surely, enterprises with similar interests can work together across state lines.”
Mac nodded. “I have not seen my family since I left the East in forty-seven. But I am on cordial—albeit distant—terms with them.” He grinned. “And my father and brother have never turned down a deal that is likely to make them a profit.”
“Have you explored this project with them?”
“I wrote them in the spring after you and I first discussed it,” Mac said. “I recently received a response from my brother Owen that their bank is interested, but they need a prospectus. That’s why I’m here today.”
“And your father?”
“I believe his age has led him to turn over management of the bank to Owen. But Owen would not have responded favorably without our father’s approval.” Mac had been away from home so long now, he didn’t really know how his father and brother worked together. But he was certain that as long as old Andrew McDougall breathed, he would not allow his empire to move in a direction he didn’t support. Mac’s father ruled family and business with an iron hand.
The men talked, and Ladd provided Mac with the information his brother wanted. He promised a written prospectus within a month.
Goods were slowly filling Mac’s warehouses in Sacramento, and his California agent wrote to report which products were selling at the greatest profit. With gold mines in California now producing less, Mac decided to focus his attentions on supplying agricultural interests around Sacramento.
But his investment in Pengra’s road in Eugene plagued him. Progress on that was pitifully slow, and the investors faced competition from another company with different proposed route through Oregon.
Mac wrote Pengra:
August 17, 1864
Sir:
Might I inquire as to the progress of your survey? I hear reports it is delayed. Until the road is in place and your land grants determined, I will have no return on my investment.
Respectfully,
Caleb McDougall
Mac received a response from Pengra within a week:
August 22, 1864
Dear Mr. McDougall:
Due to the presence of warring tribes in the area, I requested a military escort for our survey. Unfortunately, all Federal and State militia units are already occupied this summer, and the survey must be postponed until next year.
I trust you understand,
Your servant,
Byron Pengra
Mac swore in frustration—his money was committed, and he wouldn’t see any profit for more than a year to come. At least he hadn’t increased his participation in the road venture when Pengra asked.
And the People’s Transportation Company, the steamboat enterprise he’d had such hopes for in the spring, was thwarted at every juncture by the Oregon Steam Navigation Company. The Columbia River, both above The Dalles and below, carried enough traffic that it ought to be able to support two steamship companies. But O.S.N. Company had started a price war, and the P.T. Company faced mounting losses. Mac made a note to visit the P.T. Company owners and discuss how they could reduce costs.
As Mac sat in his office one late August morning, a delivery boy knocked on the door. “Telegram for you, Mr. McDougall,” the lad said. “Shall I wait for a response?”
Mac glanced at the telegram. It was from his brother.
DATE: 24 AUGUST 1864
TO: CALEB MCDOUGALL OREGON CITY
FROM: OWEN MCDOUGALL BOSTON
FATHER HAD STROKE NEAR DEATH MOTHER WANTS YOU HOME
Mac frowned, alarmed at the news of his father’s illness. Should he make a trip to Boston after so many years? How could he? It would take weeks and months, when he had so many family and business problems in Oregon.
