back upon them for the last time. He thought of the many years he
had spent beneath their rugged shadow, of the many hardships he
had suffered, of all his pains and perils undergone in those wild
regions. The most exciting episodes in his adventurous career, his
tried companions in scenes of fierce fight and bloodshed, passed in
review before him. A feeling of regret was creeping over him, when
Mary laid her hand gently on his shoulder. One single tear rolled
unbidden down his cheek, and he answered her inquiring eyes: "I'm not
sorry to leave it, Mary," he said; "but it's hard to turn one's back
upon old friends."
They had a hard battle with Killbuck, in endeavouring to persuade
him to accompany them to the settlements. The old mountaineer shook
his head. "The time," he said, "was gone by for that. He had often
thought of it, but, when the day arrived, he hadn't heart to leave
the mountains. Trapping now was of no account, he knew; but beaver
was bound to rise, and then the good times would come again. What
could he do in the settlements, where there wasn't room to move, and
where it was hard to breathe--there were so many people?"
He accompanied them a considerable distance down the river, ever and
anon looking cautiously back, to ascertain that he had not gone out
of sight of the mountains. Before reaching the forks, however, he
finally bade them adieu; and, turning the head of his old grizzled
mule westward, he heartily wrung the hand of his comrade La Bonté;
and, crying Yep! to his well-tried animal, disappeared behind a roll
of the prairie, and was seen no more--a thousand good wishes for the
welfare of the sturdy trapper speeding him on his solitary way.
Four months from the day when La Bonté so opportunely appeared to
rescue Brand's family from the Indians on Black Horse Creek, that
worthy and the faithful Mary were duly and lawfully united in the
township church of Brandville, Memphis county, State of Tennessee. We
cannot say, in the concluding words of nine hundred and ninety-nine
thousand novels, that "numerous pledges of mutual love surrounded
and cheered them in their declining years," &c. &c.; because it was
only on the 24th of July, in the year of our Lord 1847, that La Bonté
and Mary Brand were finally made one, after fifteen long years of
separation.
* * * * *
The fate of one of the humble characters who have figured in these
pages, we must yet tarry a while longer to describe.
During the past winter, a party of mountaineers, flying from
overpowering numbers of hostile Sioux, found themselves, one stormy
evening, in a wild and dismal cañon near the elevated mountain valley
called the "New Park."
The rocky bed of a dry mountain torrent, whose waters were now
locked up at their spring-heads by icy fetters, was the only road up
which they could make their difficult way: for the rugged sides of
the gorge rose precipitously from the creek, scarcely affording a
foot-hold to even the active bighorn, which occasionally looked down
upon the travellers from the lofty summit. Logs of pine, uprooted
by the hurricanes which sweep incessantly through the mountain
defiles, and tossed headlong from the surrounding ridges, continually
obstructed their way; and huge rocks and boulders, tumbling from
the heights and blocking up the bed of the stream, added to the
difficulty, and threatened them every instant with destruction.
Towards sundown they reached a point where the cañon opened out into
a little shelving glade or prairie, a few hundred yards in extent,
the entrance to which was almost hidden by a thicket of dwarf pine
and cedar. Here they determined to encamp for the night, in a spot
secure from Indians, and, as they imagined, untrodden by the foot of
man.
What, however, was their astonishment, on breaking through the
cedar-covered entrance, to perceive a solitary horse standing
motionless in the centre of the prairie. Drawing near, they found it
to be an old grizzled mustang, or Indian pony, with cropped ears and
ragged tail, (well picked by hungry mules,) standing doubled up with
cold, and at the very last gasp from extreme old age and weakness.
Its bones were nearly through the stiffened skin, the legs of the
animal were gathered under it; whilst its forlorn-looking head and
stretched-out neck hung listlessly downwards, almost overbalancing
its tottering body. The glazed and sunken eye--the protruding and
froth-covered tongue--the heaving flank and quivering tail--declared
its race was run; and the driving sleet and snow, and penetrating
winter blast, scarce made impression upon its callous, insensible,
and worn-out frame.
One of the band of mountaineers was Marcellin, and a single look
at the miserable beast was sufficient for him to recognise the
once renowned Nez-percé steed of old Bill Williams. That the owner
himself was not far distant he felt certain; and, searching carefully
around, the hunters presently came upon an old deserted camp, before
which lay, protruding from the snow, the blackened remains of pine
logs. Before these, which had been the fire, and leaning with his
back against a pine trunk, and his legs crossed under him, half
covered with snow, reclined the figure of the old mountaineer, his
snow-capped head bent over his breast. His well-known hunting-coat of
fringed elk-skin hung stiff and weather-stained about him; and his
rifle, packs, and traps, were strewed around.
Awe-struck, the trappers approached the body, and found it frozen
hard as stone, in which state it had probably lain there for many
days or weeks. A jagged rent in the breast of his leather coat, and
dark stains about it, showed he had received a wound before his
death; but it was impossible to say whether to this hurt, or to
sickness, or to the natural decay of age, was to be attributed the
wretched and solitary end of poor Bill Williams.
A friendly bullet cut short the few remaining hours of the trapper's
faithful steed; and burying, as well as they were able, the body of
the old mountaineer, the hunters next day left him in his lonely
grave, in a spot so wild and remote, that it was doubtful whether
even hungry wolves would discover and disinter his attenuated corpse.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] The word _fandango_, in New Mexico, is not applied to the
peculiar dance known in Spain by that name, but designates a ball or
dancing meeting.
[3] Nickname for the idle fellows hanging about a Mexican town,
translated into "Greasers" by the Americans.
[4] Cask-shaped gourds.
[5] The knives used by the hunters and trappers are manufactured at
the "Green River" works, and have that name stamped upon the blade.
Hence the mountain term for doing any thing effectually is "up to
Green River."
[6] Always alluding to Mexicans, who are invariably called Spaniards
by the Western Americans.
THE LATE GEORGE FREDERICK RUXTON.
The readers of _Blackwood's Magazine_, who for six succeeding
months have followed La Bonté and his mountain companions through
the hardships, humours, and perils of "Life in the Far West," will
surely not learn with indifference, that the gallant young author of
those spirited sketches has prematurely departed to his long home,
from that Transatlantic land whose prairies and forests he so well
loved to tread, and the existence and eccentricities of whose wildest
sons he so ably and pleasantly portrayed. Nearly a month has now
elapsed since the London newspapers contained the mournful tidings
of the death, at St Louis on the Mississippi, and at the early age
of twenty-eight, of Lieutenant George Frederick Ruxton, formerly
of her Majesty's 89th regiment, known to the reading world as the
author of a volume of Mexican adventure, and of the above-named
contributions to this Magazine. The former work has too completely
gained the suffrages of the public to need commendation at our hands:
it divides, with Madame Calderon de la Barca's well-known volumes,
the merit of being the best narration extant of travel and general
observation in modern Mexico.
Many individuals, even in the most enterprising periods of our
history, have been made the subjects of elaborate biography, with
far less title to the honour than our late departed friend. Time
was not granted him to embody in a permanent shape more than a
tithe of his personal experiences, and strange adventures, in three
quarters of the globe; indeed, when we consider the amount of
physical labour which he endured, and the extent of the fields over
which his wanderings were spread, we are almost led to wonder how
he could have found leisure even to have written so much. At the
early age of seventeen, Mr Ruxton quitted Sandwich, to learn the
practical part of a soldier's profession on the field of civil war
then raging in the peninsula of Spain. He received a commission in
a royal regiment of lancers, under the command of Don Diego Leon,
and was actively engaged in several of the most important combats
of the campaign. For his marked gallantry on these occasions, he
received from Queen Isabella II. the cross of the first class of the
order of St Fernando, an honour which has seldom been awarded to one
so young. On his return from Spain he found himself gazetted to a
commission in the 89th regiment; and it was while serving with that
distinguished corps in Canada that he first became acquainted with
the stirring scenes of Indian life, which he has since so graphically
portrayed. His eager and enthusiastic spirit soon became wearied with
the monotony of the barrack-room; and, yielding to that impulse which
in him was irresistibly developed, he resigned his commission, and
directed his steps towards the stupendous wilds, only tenanted by the
red Indian, or the solitary American trapper.
Those who are familiar with his writings cannot fail to have
remarked the singular delight with which the author dwells upon the
recollections of this portion of his career, and the longing which
he carried with him to the hour of death, for a return to those
scenes of primitive freedom. "Although liable to an accusation of
barbarism," he writes, "I must confess that the very happiest moments
of my life have been spent in the wilderness of the Far West; and
I never recall, but with pleasure, the remembrance of my solitary
camp in the Bayou Salade, with no friend near me more faithful than
my rifle, and no companions more sociable than my good horse and
mules, or the attendant cayute which nightly serenaded us. With a
plentiful supply of dry pine-logs on the fire, and its cheerful
blaze streaming far up into the sky, illuminating the valley far and
near, and exhibiting the animals, with well-filled bellies, standing
contentedly at rest over their picket-fires, I would sit cross-legged
enjoying the genial warmth, and, pipe in mouth, watch the blue smoke
as it curled upwards, building castles in its vapoury wreaths, and,
in the fantastic shapes it assumed, peopling the solitude with
figures of those far away. Scarcely, however, did I ever wish to
change such hours of freedom for all the luxuries of civilised life;
and, unnatural and extraordinary as it may appear, yet such is the
fascination of the life of the mountain hunter, that I believe not
one instance could be adduced of even the most polished and civilised
of men, who had once tasted the sweets of its attendant liberty,
and freedom from every worldly care, not regretting the moment when
he exchanged it for the monotonous life of the settlements, nor
sighing and sighing again once more to partake of its pleasures and
allurements."
On his return to Europe from the Far West, Mr Ruxton, animated with
a spirit as enterprising and fearless as that of Raleigh, planned
a scheme for the exploration of Central Africa, which was thus
characterised by the president of the Royal Geographical Society, in
his anniversary address for 1845:--"To my great surprise, I recently
conversed with an ardent and accomplished youth, Lieutenant Ruxton,
late of the 89th regiment, who had formed the daring project of
traversing Africa in the parallel of the southern tropic, and has
actually started for this purpose. Preparing himself by previous
excursions on foot, in North Africa and Algeria, he sailed from
Liverpool early in December last, in the Royalist, for Ichaboe. From
that spot he was to repair to Walvish Bay, where we have already
mercantile establishments. The intrepid traveller had received from
their agents of the establishments such favourable account of the
nations towards the interior, as also of the nature of the climate,
that he has the most sanguine hopes of being able to penetrate to the
central region, if not of traversing it to the Portuguese colonies
of Mozambique. If this be accomplished, then indeed will Lieutenant
Ruxton have acquired for himself a permanent name among British
travellers, by making us acquainted with the nature of the axis of
the great continent of which we possess the southern extremity."
In pursuance of this hazardous scheme, Ruxton, along with a single
companion, landed on the coast of Africa, a little to the south of
Ichaboe, and commenced his journey of exploration. But it seemed as
if both nature and man had combined to baffle the execution of his
design. The course of their travel lay along a desert of moving sand,
where no water was to be found, and little herbage, save a coarse
tufted grass, and twigs of the resinous myrrh. The immediate place
of their destination was Angra Peguena, on the coast, described as
a frequented station, but which in reality was deserted. One ship
only was in the offing when the travellers arrived, and, to their
inexpressible mortification, they discovered that she was outward
bound. No trace was visible of the river or streams laid down in
the maps as falling into the sea at this point, and no resource
was left to the travellers save that of retracing their steps--a
labour for which their strength was hardly adequate. But for the
opportune assistance of a body of natives, who encountered them at
the very moment when they were sinking from the influence of fatigue
and thirst, Ruxton and his companion would have been added to the
catalogue long of those whose lives have been sacrificed in the
attempt to explore the interior of this fatal country.
The jealousy of the traders, and of the missionaries settled on the
African coast, who constantly withheld or perverted that information
which was absolutely necessary for the successful prosecution of the
journey, induced Ruxton to abandon the attempt for the present. He
made, however, several interesting excursions towards the interior,
and more especially in the country of the Bosjesmans.
Finding that his own resources were inadequate for the accomplishment
of his favourite project, Mr Ruxton, on his return to England, made
application for Government assistance. But though this demand was
not altogether refused, it having been referred to, and favourably
reported on by, the Council of the Royal Geographical Society, so
many delays were interposed that Ruxton, in disgust, resolved to
withdraw from the scheme, and to abandon that field of African
research which he had already contemplated from its borders. He
next bent his steps to Mexico; and, fortunately, has presented to
the world his reminiscences of that country, in one of the most
fascinating volumes which, of late years, has issued from the press.
It would, however, appear that the scheme of African research, the
darling project of his life, had again recurred to him at a later
period; for, in the course of the present spring, before setting
out on that journey which was destined to be his last we find the
following expressions in a letter addressed to us:--
"My movements are uncertain, for I am trying to get up a yacht
voyage to Borneo and the Indian Archipelago; have volunteered
to Government to explore Central Africa; and the Aborigines
Protection Society wish me to go out to Canada to organise the
Indian tribes; whilst, for my own part and inclination, I wish to
go to all parts of the world at once."
As regards his second work, we shall not, under the circumstances, be
deemed egotistical, if we here, at the close of its final portion,
express our very high opinion of its merits. Written by a man
untrained to literature, and whose life, from a very early age, had
been passed in the field and on the road, in military adventure and
travel, its style is yet often as remarkable for graphic terseness
and vigour, as its substance every where is for great novelty and
originality. The narrative of "Life in the Far West" was first
offered for insertion in _Blackwood's Magazine_ in the spring of the
present year, when the greater portion of the manuscript was sent,
and the remainder shortly followed.
The wildness of the adventures which he relates have, perhaps not
unnaturally, excited suspicions in certain quarters as to their
actual truth and fidelity. It may interest our readers to know, that
the scenes described by the author are faithful pictures of the
results of his personal experience. The following are extracts from
letters addressed to us in the course of last summer:--
"I have brought out a few more softening traits in the characters
of the mountaineers--but not at the sacrifice of truth--for some
of them have their good points; which, as they are rarely allowed
to rise to the surface, must be laid hold of at once, before they
sink again. Killbuck--that 'old hos' _par exemple_, was really
pretty much of a gentleman, as was La Bonté. Bill Williams,
another 'hard case,' and Rube Herring, were 'some' too.
"The scene where La Bonté joins the Chase family is so far true
that he did make a sudden appearance; but, in reality, a day
before the Indian attack. The Chases (and I wish I had not given
the proper name[7]) did start for the Platte alone, and were
stampedoed upon the waters of the Platte.
"The Mexican fandango _is true to the letter_. It does seem
difficult to understand how they contrived to keep their knives
out of the hump-ribs of the mountaineers; but how can you account
for the fact that, the other day, 4000 Mexicans, with 13 pieces of
artillery, behind strong intrenchments and two lines of parapets,
were routed by 900 raw Missourians; 300 killed, as many more
wounded, all their artillery captured, as well as several hundred
prisoners; and that not one American was killed in the affair?
_This is positive fact._
"I myself, with three trappers, cleared a fandango at Taos, armed
only with bowie-knives--some score Mexicans, at least, being in
the room.
"With regard to the incidents of Indian attacks, starvation,
cannibalism, &c., I have invented not one out of my own head. They
are all matters of history in the mountains; but I have, no doubt,
jumbled the _dramatis personæ_ one with another, and may have
committed anachronisms in the order of their occurrence."
Again he wrote to us as follows:--
"I think it would be as well to correct a misapprehension as to
the truth or fiction of the paper. It is _no fiction_. There is no
incident in it which has not actually occurred, nor one character
who is not well known in the Rocky Mountains, with the exception
of two whose names are changed--the originals of these being,
however, equally well known with the others."
His last letter, written just before his departure from England, a
few weeks previously to his death, will hardly be read by any who
ever knew the writer, without a tear of sympathy with the sad fate of
this fine young man, dying miserably in a strange land, before he had
well commenced the adventurous journey whose excitement and dangers
he so joyously anticipated:--
"As you say, human natur can't go on feeding on civilised fixings
in this 'big village;' and this child has felt like going West
for many a month, being half froze for buffler meat and mountain
doins. My route takes me viâ New York, the Lakes, and St Louis, to
Fort Leavenworth, or Independence on the Indian frontier. Thence
packing my 'possibles' on a mule, and mounting a buffalo horse,
(Panchito, if he is alive,) I strike the Santa Fé trail to the
Arkansa, away up that river to the mountains, winter in the Bayou
Salade, where Killbuck and La Bonté joined the Yutes, cross the
mountains next spring to Great Salt Lake--and that's far enough
to look forward to--always supposing my hair is not lifted by
Comanche or Pawnee on the scalping route of the Coon Creeks and
Pawnee Fork.
"If anything turns up in the expedition which would 'shine' in
Maga, I will send you a despatch.--Meanwhile," &c. &c.
Poor fellow! he spoke lightly, in the buoyancy of youth and a
confident spirit, of the fate he little thought to meet, but which
too surely overtook him--not indeed by Indian blade, but by the no
less deadly stroke of disease. Another motive, besides that love of
rambling and adventure, which, once conceived and indulged, is so
difficult to eradicate, impelled him across the Atlantic. He had for
some time been out of health at intervals, and he thought the air
of his beloved prairies would be efficacious to work a cure. In a
letter to a friend, in the month of May last, he thus referred to the
probable origin of the evil:--
"I have been confined to my room for many days, from the effects
of an accident I met with in the Rocky Mountains, having been
spilt from the bare back of a mule, and falling on the sharp
picket of an Indian lodge on the small of my back. I fear I
injured my spine, for I have never felt altogether the thing
since, and shortly after I saw you, the symptoms became rather
ugly. However, I am now getting round again."
His medical advisers shared his opinion that he had sustained
internal injury from this ugly fall; and it is not improbable
that it was the remote, but real cause of his dissolution. Up to
this time of writing, (21st October,) however, no details of his
death have reached his afflicted friends, nor any account of it,
other than that given by the public journals. From whatsoever it
ensued, it will be a source of deep and lasting regret to all who
ever enjoyed opportunities of appreciating the high and sterling
qualities of George Frederick Ruxton. Few men, so prepossessing
on first acquaintance, gained so much by being better known. With
great natural abilities, and the most dauntless bravery, he united
a modesty and gentleness peculiarly pleasing. Had he lived, and
resisted his friends' repeated solicitations to abandon a roving
life, and settle down in England, there can be little doubt that
he would have made his name eminent on the list of those daring
and persevering men, whose travels in distant and dangerous lands
have accumulated for England, and for the world, so rich a store of
scientific and general information. And, although the few words we
have thought it right and becoming here to devote to his memory,
will doubtless be more particularly welcome to his personal friends,
we are persuaded that none will peruse without interest this brief
tribute to the merits of a gallant soldier, and accomplished English
gentleman.
FOOTNOTE:
[7] In accordance with this suggestion, the name was changed to
Brand. The mountaineers, it seems, are more sensitive to type than
to tomahawks; and poor Ruxton, who always contemplated another
expedition among them, would sometimes jestingly speculate upon his
reception, should they learn that he had shown them up in print.
THE NAVAL WAR OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.[8]
The navy of England is the right arm of the British empire. The
gallantry of British troops requires no praise of ours, as it admits
of no doubt on the part of our enemies. But until some convulsion of
the globe shall make England _Continental_, so long must her chief
force be naval, her chief defence be by her strength at sea, and her
chief victories be gained on the ocean.
The navy has another incomparable adaptation to the especial
circumstances of England. Her empire is colonial: the extent of Great
Britain itself scarcely equals one of those provinces beyond the
ocean which Providence has given into her hands. Their defence, their
maintenance, and their existence, must depend on the superiority of
our fleet: if it were once extinguished, the British empire must be
again contracted within the British Isles.
A third, and perhaps a more important qualification than either,
is--that a fleet is the only form of national force which can _never_
endanger national freedom.