Last Stand: George Bird Grinnell, the Battle to Save the Buffalo, and the Birth of the New West. Michael Punke
began a decade-long series of financial misadventures. By 1819, the Audubons were bankrupt, and for a brief time, John James was even jailed for his debts. There would be other, even greater tragedies—the Audubons lost two infant daughters to sickness. Two sons, Gifford and Woodhouse, would survive childhood—though they would not outlive their mother.4
Having failed at business, Audubon was determined to make a living in the field that fueled his passion—painting. He scraped by—drawing portraits at $5 a head, teaching art at two girls’ schools, and working as a taxidermist in a museum. Since a young age, though, Audubon had loved to paint birds, and it was toward this endeavor that he increasingly turned. He began to travel in search of new subjects, eventually building a portfolio detailing hundreds of species. But it would be decades before he achieved any kind of financial reprieve. In the meantime, John James was often away from home for long periods of time, sometimes years, as he traveled the American West and later toured Europe in an effort to secure patrons and a publisher.5
Lucy Audubon, meanwhile, who had grown up in a life of privilege and wealth, became the breadwinner for herself and her two young sons. One of the few professions open to women was teaching, and Lucy began to conduct classes out of her home. Later she and her children took up residence with a wealthy plantation owner in Louisiana, teaching the local children in exchange for a place to live and a small salary. For two decades, she faced constant fears about putting food on the table, the indignities of asking for credit, and the struggle of single parenthood. It was a time of remarkable sacrifice—of subordinating her own needs and desires in favor of her family. Indeed self-sacrifice became the creed by which she lived, a way of putting her life into a broader context. While Audubon struggled for recognition and financial success, Lucy supported him, encouraged him, guided him, and advised him with a sound judgment that the artist lacked. And she held the family together.
For John James Audubon, recognition would come long before financial success. With Lucy’s encouragement, Audubon in 1826 took his collection to England. In Europe, Audubon would earn fame as both an artist and a naturalist. But not until the publication of Birds of America in the late 1830s did the Audubon family achieve its first semblance of financial security. In 1841, when Lucy was 54 years old, Audubon bought the tract of land along the Hudson River that would become Audubon Park. In 1842 he completed construction of a grand house, proud finally to have provided the home that he felt his wife deserved. He called it Minniesland, a reference to his pet name for Lucy.
For a few years at Minniesland, Lucy enjoyed a short interlude of repose. Her decades of hard work, it appeared, had come to fruition. With his two sons assisting him (and living in their own houses at Audubon Park), John James labored on the last of his great works, Viviparous Quadrupeds of North America. Lucy took pleasure in her home, the company of her sons, and a growing brood of grandchildren. But it would not last.
In 1844, Audubon’s eyesight began to fail him. Soon he could no longer paint the exacting details that defined his work. In 1847, Audubon suffered a stroke that crippled his mind. He spent the last years of his life in a desperate fog of senility, dying in 1851 at the age of 65. Lucy had known tragedy before, but still worse events lay ahead. In 1856, her son Gifford suffered a fall that left him an invalid. Lucy rented out the house she loved and moved in with Gifford and his family, helping to care for him.
In 1857—the same year that George Bird Grinnell and his family moved to Audubon Park—Lucy began teaching again to supplement the family income. Grinnell would later write that Grandma Audubon “seemed to be doing for her sons and their families something like what she had been doing for her husband during much of the time of their marriage, earning the bread for the family.”6 She began to sell off pieces of Audubon Park, including the property purchased by Grinnell’s father. Young George accompanied his father to the closing, and he was struck by Grandma Audubon’s “great relief, satisfaction, and even gratitude.” The scene moved him, “though for years afterward I did not understand its meaning.”7 Even with her land, Lucy’s assets could provide no protection against the next waves of calamity to strike her family.
The sons of John James Audubon apparently inherited their father’s weakness in matters financial. In Grinnell’s words, “neither he nor his sons were businessmen.” In 1859, Woodhouse Audubon invested a large sum in the publication of a new edition of his father’s Birds of America. The new book was sold to subscribers, most of whom happened to reside in the South. When the Civil War broke out, the investment turned into a near complete loss. Creditors placed liens on Audubon Park.
Gifford, meanwhile, having languished since his accident, died in 1860, Lucy at his side. Lucy would soon watch the death of Woodhouse too. Devastated by the death of his brother and the pressure of his financial losses, Woodhouse fell ill. He died in 1862. The next year, to stave off her sons’ creditors, Lucy sold her remaining property at Audubon Park and moved in with a granddaughter in Washington Heights. Over the years, she sold off paintings from her husband’s collection, including the original plates for Birds of America, which at least provided an income until her death in Louisville at the age of 87.
One painting that Lucy did not sell was a large work by her husband called The Eagle and the Lamb. The painting must have had special significance: She hung it, out of all her husband’s works, in her bedroom. The painting, as she knew, was also a favorite of her student George Bird Grinnell. Before her journey to Louisville, the last journey of her life, Lucy wrote a short note in a shaking hand to Grinnell. “Dear young friend,” it began. She worried in the note about the possibility of an “accident” on the trip, perhaps her way of expressing concern about the hardship of travel on the very old. If anything were to happen, she directed Grinnell to “take possession of the Eagle & Lamb, with all the love & esteem for yourself & parents that is possible for our hearts to feel.” Lucy survived the trip to Louisville, though she died shortly thereafter. Her will would also specify that the painting should go to Grinnell. It hung in his home for all his life.8
Grinnell would sum up the life of Lucy Audubon in an essay he would later write about her husband: “The great lesson of his life lies in our recognition … that he triumphed in the strength of another, who molded his character, shaped his aims, gave substance to his dreams, and finally, by the exercise of that self-denial which he was incapable of as a long-sustained effort, won for him the public recognition and reward of his splendid talents.”9
The greatest lesson that Grinnell would learn from Lucy Audubon—the greatest lesson of his life—was her creed of self-denial. Self-denial, preached Grandma Audubon, was the “key to success in life.”10 For Lucy, sacrifice made possible the success of her husband and the stable upbringing of her children. Their successes became hers, and appropriately so.
Grinnell, only fourteen at the time that Lucy left Audubon Park, could not yet know the importance of the boyhood lesson that he would one day apply to the broad world around him. His teacher had sown a seed, but the conditions for cultivation were not yet present. For many years, in fact, it appeared that young George Bird Grinnell might instead follow the path of those to whom too much is given. In the West with the Marsh expedition, though, came the first signs of Grinnell’s great awakening.
THE BASE OF OPERATIONS FOR THE THIRD AND MOST SIGNIFICANT stage of the 1870 Marsh expedition was the southwest Wyoming outpost of Fort Bridger. Jim Bridger, “King of the Mountain Men,” had established the fort in 1843, and it became an important way station for westbound travelers. Now two months into their voyage, Grinnell was proud that he and his Yale companions had come to look like the frontiersmen they idolized: “Bearded, bronzed by exposure to all weather, and clothed in buckskin, you might take them at first glance for a party of trappers.”11
For the Marsh expedition, Fort Bridger was the gateway to the greatest scientific discoveries of the journey. In the basin to the south of the fort, the expedition uncovered Eohippus, the earliest known member of the horse family, and also the “extraordinary six-horned beasts later described by Marsh as Dinocerata.”12
Grinnell certainly shared in the pride and excitement of these discoveries. In his memoirs he noted briefly that the “three trips that the expedition had already