Chuck Schading

Author’s Note: The 137 letters presented in this account were collected from numerous sources, including historical societies, museums, private collections and family estates across the United States of America. 

While we can safely assume that such a prolific writer as Montgomery G. Jenkins wrote many more letters on his journey across the continental United States, we can also infer that many were likely lost to history. Those that remain tell a gripping tale, but there are also gaps and jumps in time due to the loss of historical record. The letters were written in Jenkins’ own hand as well as those of others who traveled alongside him or wrote to him. 

Additional notes: 

Many of the letters written during Jenkins’ time in captivity in the early 1850s were never delivered to his beloved Martha but later discovered in a single bundle, hidden in the wall of an old sugar mill. 

Several of the letters from Martha were uncovered in 1958, when Jenkins’ grave was accidentally unearthed during the construction of a freeway in Sacramento, California. They were buried with him, right next to his heart. Sadly, many others never reached Jenkins, as they were sent to locales that he had already departed. 

Special thanks to Jim Roberts at the Tippecanoe (Indiana) Preservation Society, Rowlf Peterson at the Buffalo Historical Society & Museum, and Margaret Davidson at the Gold Rush Museum in San Francisco, California, for their contributions to this project. An enormous debt of gratitude also goes to the Martha Worthington Jenkins Kent Jeffers Estate in Boston, and in particular Margaret Elizabeth Jeffers, without whom this comprehensive and important historical record would be woefully incomplete.

The letters of Montgomery G. Jenkins, his beloved Martha and their associates are being presented together here for the first time, the culmination of more than 75 years of research, collection and preservation. 

It is a story of hope and despair, triumph and tragedy, love and lust.

Above all, it is an American story.

Jan. 4, 1849

Dearest Martha,

It is with fondest memories of you that I write this letter and hope that it finds you in fair spirits. As you surely recall given my absence from home lo these many weeks, I have embarked upon another long trek across this grand and wild continent. We arrived in Buffalo in mid-December just before the snows arrived and are beginning to gather supplies, wagons, horses and hired hands for our journey. (All are required to bathe before joining our merry band, horses and livestock included.)

As you likely recall from my previous letters, which I am sure you held close to your bosom until I returned, my last crosscountry trek ended in disaster, with every member of my troop save two (St. George and Jeffers) falling victim to attack, illness or disaster. Who could forget poor Pennysworth as he tumbled from the gorge and lay dying on a rocky ledge for days, torn apart by vultures as he lamented not having memorized The Lord’s Prayer? (Was the rope long enough as he claimed? I suppose we shall never know.)

So, though our last trip to the Pacific ended far too quickly (just 50 miles west of Buffalo), this time we shall endeavor to exceed all expectations and reach the western coast within just six months. This time we shall eschew the Northern route and travel through the heartland directly to California, where rumor has it that gold … yes, gold Martha! … has been discovered in ample supply.

I imagine gold to be hanging off the trees and available to scoop up on the shores of every stream. Within weeks I shall have enough to buy you not only the new wash tub you have been prattling on about (just plug the hole with wax until I return!) but also many other things as well, including one of the new feathered hats Dickens has been selling in his haberdashery at the Market Place near the harbor. Enclosed please find one (1) penny to use as a deposit on whatever you like and ask that he hold the item until I return.

Martha, though our absence is just beginning, know that I will write you almost daily to tell you of my adventures. Perhaps at the end we shall have the makings of a memoir that old Dickens can peddle in his shop. 

Thus far we have myself, St. George, Jeffers, a woodsman from Pennsylvania named Pike, a foreign idiot boy named Tadd (he speaks no English so we remain at a quandary as to what his real name is.). Acquired thus far are three oxen (two in excellent health), three horses (for St. George, Jeffers and myself) a wagon, a cart, a goat, three chickens and a rooster. Several crates of supplies are quickly filling up with weapons for protection and hunting, foodstuffs, bed rolls, cooking supplies, liniments and medicinal ointments in case there is injury, etc, etc.) They are currently being stored in a three-walled barn (a kind description for a ramshackle structure) near the inn where our erstwhile band is wintering. There is but half a roof on this so-called barn but it is enough to keep the animals and supplies out of the rain and snow. The idiot boy laid claim to the uncovered half and keeps watch at night so the rest of us may slumber.

Most importantly, and dearest to me, is that I also carry with me at all times, as close to my heart as I can manage, an etching of you in your favorite bonnet. If any of the men so much as glance at it, I will kill them.

So wish me luck, darling. I shall think of you daily in ways both savory and otherwise.

I am, forever yours,

Montgomery G. Jenkins

PS. Jeffers believes he may have syphilis. We are delayed in our preparations.

PPS. Letters may be sent to the Deer’s Head Inn, Buffalo, NY. There are couriers who run the New York route frequently. Inquire at the town hall and they will direct you.