FORT LARAMIE was a military station and trading post combined. It was a
stone building in what they called a ‘compound’ or open space, enclosed
by a palisade. When we arrived there, it was occupied by a troop of
mounted riflemen under canvas, outside the compound. The officers lived
in the fort; and as we had letters to the Colonel — Somner — and to the
Captain — Rhete, they were very kind and very useful to us.
We pitched our camp by the Laramie river, four miles from the fort.
Nearer than that there was not a blade of grass. The cavalry horses and
military mules needed all there was at hand. Some of the mules we were
allowed to buy, or exchange for our own. We accordingly added six fresh
ones to our cavalcade, and parted with two horses; which gave us a total
of fifteen mules and six horses. Government provisions were not to be
had, so that we could not replenish our now impoverished stock. This was
a serious matter, as will be seen before long. Nor was the evil lessened
by my being laid up with a touch of fever—the effect, no doubt, of those
drenches of stagnant water. The regimental doctor was absent. I could
not be taken into the fort. And, as we had no tent, and had thrown away
almost everything but the clothes we wore, I had to rough it and take my
chance. Some relics of our medicine chest, together with a tough
constitution, pulled me through. But I was much weakened, and by no
means fit for the work before us. Fred did his best to persuade me from
going further. He confessed that he was utterly sick of the expedition;
that his injured knee prevented him from hunting, or from being of any
use in packing and camp work; that the men were a set of ruffians who did
just as they chose—they grumbled at the hardships, yet helped themselves
to the stores without restraint; that we had the Rocky Mountains yet to
cross; after that, the country was unknown. Colonel Somner had strongly
advised us to turn back. Forty of his men had tried two months ago to
carry despatches to the regiment’s headquarters in Oregon. Only five had
got through; the rest had been killed and scalped. Finally, that we had
something like 1,200 miles to go, and were already in the middle of
August. It would be folly, obstinacy, madness, to attempt it. He would
stop and hunt where we were, as long as I liked; or he would go back with
me. He would hire fresh good men, and buy new horses; and, now that we
knew the country, we could get to St. Louis before the end of September,
and—. There was no reasonable answer to be made. I simply told him I
had thought it over, and had decided to go on. Like the plucky fellow
and staunch friend that he was, he merely shrugged his shoulders, and
quietly said, ‘Very well. So be it.’
Before leaving Fort Laramie a singular incident occurred, which must seem
so improbable, that its narration may be taken for fiction. It was,
however, a fact. There was plenty of game near our camping ground; and
though the weather was very hot, one of the party usually took the
trouble to bring in something to keep the pot supplied. The sage hens,
the buffalo or elk meat were handed over to Jacob, who made a stew with
bacon and rice, enough for the evening meal and the morrow’s breakfast.
After supper, when everyone had filled his stomach, the large kettle,
covered with its lid, was taken off the fire, and this allowed to burn
itself out.
For four or five mornings running the kettle was found nearly empty, and
all hands had to put up with a cup of coffee and mouldy biscuit dust.
There was a good deal of unparliamentary language. Everyone accused
everyone else of filthy greediness. It was disgusting that after eating
all he could, a man hadn’t the decency to wait till the morning. The pot
had been full for supper, and, as every man could see, it was never half
emptied—enough was always left for breakfast. A resolution was
accordingly passed that each should take his turn of an hour’s watch at
night, till the glutton was caught in the act.
My hour happened to be from 11 to 12 P.M. I strongly suspected the thief
to be an Indian, and loaded my big pistol with slugs on the chance. It
was a clear moonlight night. I propped myself comfortably with a bag of
hams; and concealed myself as well as I could in a bush of artemisia,
which was very thick all round. I had not long been on the look-out when
a large grey wolf prowled slowly out of the bushes. The night was bright
as day; but every one of the men was sound asleep in a circle round the
remains of the camp fire. The wolf passed between them, hesitating as it
almost touched a covering blanket. Step by step it crept up to the
kettle, took the handle of the lid between its jaws, lifted it off,
placed it noiselessly on the ground, and devoured the savoury stew.
I could not fire, because of the men. I dared not move, lest I should
disturb the robber. I was even afraid the click of cocking the pistol
would startle him and prevent my getting a quiet shot. But patience was
rewarded. When satiated, the brute retired as stealthily as he had
advanced; and as he passed within seven or eight yards of me I let him
have it. Great was my disappointment to see him scamper off. How was it
possible I could have missed him? I must have fired over his back. The
men jumped to their feet and clutched their rifles; but, though
astonished at my story, were soon at rest again. After this the kettle
was never robbed. Four days later we were annoyed with such a stench
that it was a question of shifting our quarters. In hunting for the
nuisance amongst the thicket of wormwood, the dead wolf was discovered
not twenty yards from our centre.
The reader would not thank me for an account of the monotonous drudgery,
the hardships, the quarrellings, which grew worse from day to day after
we left Fort Laramie. Fred and I were about the only two who were on
speaking terms; we clung to each other, as a sort of forlorn security
against coming disasters. Gradually it was dawning on me that, under the
existing circumstances, the fulfilment of my hopes would be (as Fred had
predicted) an impossibility; and that to persist in the attempt to
realise them was to court destruction. As yet, I said nothing of this to
him. Perhaps I was ashamed to. Perhaps I secretly acknowledged to
myself that he had been wiser than I, and that my stubbornness was
responsible for the life itself of every one of the party.
Doubtless thoughts akin to these must often have haunted the mind of my
companion; but he never murmured; only uttered a hasty objurgation when
troubles reached a climax, and invariably ended with a burst of cheery
laughter which only the sulkiest could resist. It was after a day of
severe trials he proposed that we should go off by ourselves for a couple
of nights in search of game, of which we were much in need. The men were
easily persuaded to halt and rest. Samson had become a sort of
nonentity. Dysentery had terribly reduced his strength, and with it such
intelligence as he could boast of. We started at daybreak, right glad to
be alone together and away from the penal servitude to which we were
condemned. We made for the Sweetwater, not very far from the foot of the
South Pass, where antelope and black-tailed deer abounded. We failed,
however, to get near them—stalk after stalk miscarried.
Disappointed and tired, we were looking out for some snug little hollow
where we could light a fire without its being seen by the Indians, when,
just as we found what we wanted, an antelope trotted up to a brow to
inspect us. I had a fairly good shot at him and missed. This
disheartened us both. Meat was the one thing we now sorely needed to
save the rapidly diminishing supply of hams. Fred said nothing, but I
saw by his look how this trifling accident helped to depress him. I was
ready to cry with vexation. My rifle was my pride, the stag of my
life—my _alter ego_. It was never out of my hands; every day I practised
at prairie dogs, at sage hens, at a mark even if there was no game. A
few days before we got to Laramie I had killed, right and left, two wild
ducks, the second on the wing; and now, when so much depended on it, I
could not hit a thing as big as a donkey. The fact is, I was the worse
for illness. I had constant returns of fever, with bad shivering fits,
which did not improve the steadiness of one’s hand. However, we managed
to get a supper. While we were examining the spot where the antelope had
stood, a leveret jumped up, and I knocked him over with my remaining
barrel. We fried him in the one tin plate we had brought with us, and
thought it the most delicious dish we had had for weeks.
As we lay side by side, smoke curling peacefully from our pipes, we
chatted far into the night, of other days—of Cambridge, of our college
friends, of London, of the opera, of balls, of women—the last a fruitful
subject—and of the future. I was vastly amused at his sudden outburst as
some start of one of the horses picketed close to us reminded us of the
actual present. ‘If ever I get out of this d—d mess,’ he exclaimed,
‘I’ll never go anywhere without my own French cook.’ He kept his word,
to the end of his life, I believe.
It was a delightful repose, a complete forgetting, for a night at any
rate, of all impending care. Each was cheered and strengthened for the
work to come. The spirit of enterprise, the love of adventure restored
for the moment, believed itself a match for come what would. The very
animals seemed invigorated by the rest and the abundance of rich grass
spreading as far as we could see. The morning was bright and cool. A
delicious bath in the Sweetwater, a breakfast on fried ham and coffee,
and once more in our saddles on the way back to camp, we felt (or fancied
that we felt) prepared for anything.
That is just what we were not. Samson and the men, meeting with no game
where we had left them, had moved on that afternoon in search of better
hunting grounds. The result was that when we overtook them, we found
five mules up to their necks in a muddy creek. The packs were sunk to
the bottom, and the animals nearly drowned or strangled. Fred and I
rushed to the rescue. At once we cut the ropes which tied them together;
and, setting the men to pull at tails or heads, succeeded at last in
extricating them.
Our new-born vigour was nipped in the bud. We were all drenched to the
skin. Two packs containing the miserable remains of our wardrobe, Fred’s
and mine, were lost. The catastrophe produced a good deal of bad
language and bad blood. Translated into English it came to this: ‘They
had trusted to us, taking it for granted we knew what we were about.
What business had we to “boss” the party if we were as ignorant as the
mules? We had guaranteed to lead them through to California [!] and had
brought them into this “almighty fix” to slave like niggers and to
starve.’ There was just truth enough in the Jeremiad to make it sting.
It would not have been prudent, nay, not very safe, to return curse for
curse. But the breaking point was reached at last. That night I, for
one, had not much sleep. I was soaked from head to foot, and had not a
dry rag for a change. Alternate fits of fever and rigor would alone have
kept me awake; but renewed ponderings upon the situation and confirmed
convictions of the peremptory necessity of breaking up the party, forced
me to the conclusion that this was the right, the only, course to adopt.
For another twenty-four hours I brooded over my plans. Two main
difficulties confronted me: the announcement to the men, who might
mutiny; and the parting with Fred, which I dreaded far the most of the
two. Would he not think it treacherous to cast him off after the
sacrifices he had made for me? Implicitly we were as good as pledged to
stand by each other to the last gasp. Was it not mean and dastardly to
run away from the battle because it was dangerous to fight it out? Had
friendship no claims superior to personal safety? Was not my decision
prompted by sheer selfishness? Could anything be said in its defence?
Yes; sentiment must yield to reason. To go on was certain death for all.
It was not too late to return, for those who wished it. And when I had
demonstrated, as I could easily do, the impossibility of continuance,
each one could decide for himself. The men were as reckless as they were
ignorant. However they might execrate us, we were still their natural
leaders: their blame, indeed, implied they felt it. No sentimental
argument could obscure this truth, and this conviction was decisive.
The next night and the day after were, from a moral point of view, the
most trying perhaps, of the whole journey. We had halted on a wide, open
plain. Due west of us in the far distance rose the snowy peaks of the
mountains. And the prairie on that side terminated in bluffs, rising
gradually to higher spurs of the range. When the packs were thrown off,
and the men had turned, as usual, to help themselves to supper, I drew
Fred aside and imparted my resolution to him. He listened to it
calmly—much more so than I had expected. Yet it was easy to see by his
unusual seriousness that he fully weighed the gravity of the purpose.
All he said at the time was, ‘Let us talk it over after the men are
asleep.’
We did so. We placed our saddles side by side—they were our regular
pillows—and, covering ourselves with the same blanket, well out of
ear-shot, discussed the proposition from every practical aspect. He now
combated my scheme, as I always supposed he would, by laying stress upon
our bond of friendship. This was met on my part by the arguments already
set forth. He then proposed an amendment, which almost upset my
decision. ‘It is true,’ he admitted, ‘that we cannot get through as we
are going now; the provisions will not hold out another month, and it is
useless to attempt to control the men. But there are two ways out of the
difficulty: we can reach Salt Lake City and winter there; or, if you are
bent on going to California, why shouldn’t we take Jacob and Nelson (the
Canadian), pay off the rest of the brutes, and travel together,—us four?’
Whether ‘das ewig Wirkende’ that shapes our ends be beneficent or
malignant is not easy to tell, till after the event. Certain it is that
sometimes we seem impelled by latent forces stronger than ourselves—if by
self be meant one’s will. We cannot give a reason for all we do; the
infinite chain of cause and effect, which has had no beginning and will
have no end, is part of the reckoning,—with this, finite minds can never
grapple.
It was destined (my stubbornness was none of my making) that I should
remain obdurate. Fred’s last resource was an attempt to persuade me (he
really believed: I, too, thought it likely) that the men would show
fight, annex beasts and provisions, and leave us to shift for ourselves.
There were six of them, armed as we were, to us three, or rather us two,
for Samson was a negligible quantity. ‘We shall see,’ said I; and by
degrees we dropped asleep.