BEFORE the first streak of dawn I was up and off to hunt for the horses
and mules, which were now allowed to roam in search of feed. On my
return, the men were afoot, taking it easy as usual. Some artemisia
bushes were ablaze for the morning’s coffee. No one but Fred had a
suspicion of the coming crisis. I waited till each one had lighted his
pipe; then quietly requested the lot to gather the provision packs
together, as it was desirable to take stock, and make some estimate of
demand and supply. Nothing loth, the men obeyed. ‘Now,’ said I, ‘turn
all the hams out of their bags, and let us see how long they will last.’
When done: ‘What!’ I exclaimed, with well—feigned dismay, ‘that’s not
all, surely? There are not enough here to last a fortnight. Where are
the rest? No more? Why, we shall starve.’ The men’s faces fell; but
never a murmur, nor a sound. ‘Turn out the biscuit bags. Here, spread
these empty ham sacks, and pour the biscuit on to them. Don’t lose any
of the dust. We shall want every crumb, mouldy or not.’ The gloomy
faces grew gloomier. What’s to be done?’ Silence. ‘The first thing, as
I think all will agree, is to divide what is left into nine equal
shares—that’s our number now—and let each one take his ninth part, to do
what he likes with. You yourselves shall portion out the shares, and
then draw lots for choice.’
This presentation of the inevitable compelled submission. The whole,
amounting to twelve light mule packs (it had been fifteen fairly heavy
ones after our purchases at Fort Laramie), was still a goodly bulk to
look at. The nine peddling dividends, when seen singly, were not quite
what the shareholders had anticipated.
Why were they still silent? Why did they not rebel, and visit their
wrath upon the directors? Because they knew in their hearts that we had
again and again predicted the catastrophe. They knew we had warned them
scores and scores of times of the consequences of their wilful and
reckless improvidence. They were stupefied, aghast, at the ruin they had
brought upon themselves. To turn upon us, to murder us, and divide our
three portions between them, would have been suicidal. In the first
place, our situation was as desperate as theirs. We should fight for our
lives; and it was not certain, in fact it was improbable, that either
Jacob or William would side against us. Without our aid—they had not a
compass among them—they were helpless. The instinct of self-preservation
bade them trust to our good will.
So far, then, the game was won. Almost humbly they asked what we advised
them to do. The answer was prompt and decisive: ‘Get back to Fort
Laramie as fast as you can.’ ‘But how? Were they to walk? They
couldn’t carry their packs.’ ‘Certainly not; we were English gentlemen,
and would behave as such. Each man should have his own mule; each, into
the bargain, should receive his pay according to agreement.’ They were
agreeably surprised. I then very strongly counselled them not to travel
together. Past experience proved how dangerous this must be. To avoid
the temptation, even the chance, of this happening, the surest and safest
plan would be for each party to start separately, and not leave till the
last was out of sight. For my part I had resolved to go alone.
It was a melancholy day for everyone. And to fill the cup of
wretchedness to overflowing, the rain, beginning with a drizzle, ended
with a downpour. Consultations took place between men who had not spoken
to one another for weeks. Fred offered to go on, at all events to Salt
Lake City, if Nelson the Canadian and Jacob would go with him. Both
eagerly closed with the offer. They would be so much nearer to the
‘diggings,’ and were, moreover, fond of their leader. Louis would go
back to Fort Laramie. Potter and Morris would cross the mountains, and
strike south for the Mormon city if their provisions and mules threatened
to give out. William would try his luck alone in the same way. And
there remained no one but Samson, undecided and unprovided for. The
strong weak man sat on the ground in the steady rain, smoking pipe after
pipe; watching first the preparations, then the departures, one after the
other, at intervals of an hour or so. First the singles, then the pair;
then, late in the afternoon, Fred and his two henchmen.
It is needless to depict our separation. I do not think either expected
ever to see the other again. Yet we parted after the manner of trueborn
Britons, as if we should meet again in a day or two. ‘Well, good-bye,
old fellow. Good luck. What a beastly day, isn’t it?’ But emotions are
only partially suppressed by subduing their expression. The hearts of
both were full.
I watched the gradual disappearance of my dear friend, and thought with a
sigh of my loss in Jacob and Nelson, the two best men of the band. It
was a comfort to reflect that they had joined Fred. Jacob especially was
full of resource; Nelson of energy and determination. And the courage
and cool judgment of Fred, and his presence of mind in emergencies, were
all pledges for the safety of the trio.
As they vanished behind a distant bluff, I turned to the sodden wreck of
the deserted camp, and began actively to pack my mules. Samson seemed
paralysed by imbecility.
‘What had I better do?’ he presently asked, gazing with dull eyes at his
two mules and two horses.
‘I don’t care what you do. It is nothing to me. You had better pack
your mules before it is dark, or you may lose them.’
‘I may as well go with you, I think. I don’t care much about going back
to Laramie.’
He looked miserable. I was so. I had held out under a long and heavy
strain. Parting with Fred had, for the moment, staggered my resolution.
I was sick at heart. The thought of packing two mules twice a day,
single-handed, weakened as I was by illness, appalled me. And though
ashamed of the perversity which had led me to fling away the better and
accept the worse, I yielded.
‘Very well then. Make haste. Get your traps together. I’ll look after
the horses.’
It took more than an hour before the four mules were ready. Like a fool,
I left Samson to tie the led horses in a string, while I did the same
with the mules. He started, leading the horses. I followed with the
mule train some minutes later. Our troubles soon began. The two spare
horses were nearly as wild as the mules. I had not got far when I
discerned through the rain a kicking and plunging and general
entanglement of the lot ahead of me. Samson had fastened the horses
together with slip knots; and they were all doing their best to strangle
one another and themselves. To leave the mules was dangerous, yet two
men were required to release the maddened horses. At last the labour was
accomplished; and once more the van pushed on with distinct instructions
as to the line of march, it being now nearly dark. The mules had
naturally vanished in the gloom; and by the time I was again in my
saddle, Samson was—I knew not where. On and on I travelled, far into the
night. But failing to overtake my companion, and taking for granted that
he had missed his way, I halted when I reached a stream, threw off the
packs, let the animals loose, rolled myself in my blanket, and shut my
eyes upon a trying day.
Nothing happens but the unexpected. Daylight woke me. Samson, still in
his rugs, was but a couple of hundred yards further up the stream. In
the afternoon of the third day we fell in with William. He had cut
himself a long willow wand and was fishing for trout, of which he had
caught several in the upper reaches of the Sweetwater. He threw down his
rod, hastened to welcome our arrival, and at once begged leave to join
us. He was already sick of solitude. He had come across Potter and
Morris, who had left him that morning. They had been visited by wolves
in the night, (I too had been awakened by their howlings,) and poor
William did not relish the thought of the mountains alone, with his one
little white mule—which he called ‘Cream.’ He promised to do his utmost
to help with the packing, and ‘not cost us a cent.’ I did not tell him
how my heart yearned towards him, and how miserably my courage had oozed
away since we parted, but made a favour of his request, and granted it.
The gain, so long as it lasted, was incalculable.
The summit of the South Pass is between 8000 and 9000 feet above the
level of the Gulf of Mexico. The Pass itself is many miles broad,
undulating on the surface, but not abruptly. The peaks of the Wind River
Chain, immediately to the north, are covered with snow; and as we
gradually got into the misty atmosphere we felt the cold severely. The
lariats—made of raw hide—became rods of ice; and the poor animals, whose
backs were masses of festering raws, suffered terribly from exposure. It
was interesting to come upon proofs of the ‘divide’ within a mile of the
most elevated point in the pass. From the Hudson to this spot, all
waters had flowed eastward; now suddenly every little rivulet was making
for the Pacific.
The descent is as gradual as the rise. On the first day of it we lost
two animals, a mule and Samson’s spare horse. The latter, never equal to
the heavy weight of its owner, could go no further; and the dreadful
state of the mule’s back rendered packing a brutality. Morris and
Potter, who passed us a few days later, told us they had seen the horse
dead, and partially eaten by wolves; the mule they had shot to put it out
of its misery.
In due course we reached Fort Hall, a trading post of the Hudson’s Bay
Company, some 200 miles to the north-west of the South Pass. Sir George
Simpson, Chairman of that Company, had given me letters, which ensured
the assistance of its servants. It was indeed a rest and a luxury to
spend a couple of idle days here, and revive one’s dim recollection of
fresh eggs and milk. But we were already in September. Our animals were
in a deplorable condition; and with the exception of a little flour, a
small supply of dried meat, and a horse for Samson, Mr. Grant, the
trader, had nothing to sell us. He told us, moreover, that before we
reached Fort Boisé, their next station, 300 miles further on, we had to
traverse a great rocky desert, where we might travel four-and-twenty
hours after leaving water, before we met with it again. There was
nothing for it but to press onwards. It was too late now to cross the
Sierra Nevada range, which lay between us and California; and with the
miserable equipment left to us, it was all we could hope to do to reach
Oregon before the passage of the Blue Mountains was blocked by the
winter’s snow.
Mr. Grant’s warnings were verified to the foot of the letter. Great were
our sufferings, and almost worse were those of the poor animals, from the
want of water. Then, too, unlike the desert of Sahara, where the pebbly
sand affords a solid footing, the soil here is the calcined powder of
volcanic débris, so fine that every step in it is up to one’s ankles;
while clouds of it rose, choking the nostrils, and covering one from head
to heel. Here is a passage from my journal:
‘Road rocky in places, but generally deep in the finest floury sand. A
strong and biting wind blew dead in our teeth, smothering us in dust,
which filled every pore. William presented such a ludicrous appearance
that Samson and I went into fits over it. An old felt hat, fastened on
by a red cotton handkerchief, tied under his chin, partly hid his
lantern-jawed visage; this, naturally of a dolorous cast, was screwed
into wrinkled contortions by its efforts to resist the piercing gale.
The dust, as white as flour, had settled thick upon him, the extremity of
his nasal organ being the only rosy spot left; its pearly drops lodged
upon a chin almost as prominent. His shoulders were shrugged to a level
with his head, and his long legs dangled from the back of little “Cream”
till they nearly touched the ground.’
We laughed at him, it is true, but he was so good-natured, so patient, so
simple-minded, and, now and then, when he and I were alone, so
sentimental and confidential about Mary, and the fortune he meant to
bring her back, that I had a sort of maternal liking for him; and even a
vicarious affection for Mary herself, the colour of whose eyes and
hair—nay, whose weight avoirdupois—I was now accurately acquainted with.
No, the honest fellow had not quite the grit of a ‘Leatherstocking.’
One night, when we had halted after dark, he went down to a gully (we
were not then in the desert) to look for water for our tea. Samson,
armed with the hatchet, was chopping wood. I stayed to arrange the
packs, and spread the blankets. Suddenly I heard a voice from the bottom
of the ravine, crying out, ‘Bring the guns for God’s sake! Make haste!
Bring the guns!’ I rushed about in the dark, tumbling over the saddles,
but could nowhere lay my hands on a rifle. Still the cry was for ‘Guns!’
My own, a muzzle-loader, was discharged, but a rifle none the less.
Snatching up this, and one of my pistols, which, by the way, had fallen
into the river a few hours before, I shouted for Samson, and ran headlong
to the rescue. Before I got to the bottom of the hill I heard groans,
which sounded like the last of poor William. I holloaed to know where he
was, and was answered in a voice that discovered nothing worse than
terror.
It appeared that he had met a grizzly bear drinking at the very spot
where he was about to fill his can; that he had bolted, and the bear had
pursued him; but that he had ‘cobbled the bar with rocks,’ had hit it in
the eye, or nose, he was not sure which, and thus narrowly escaped with
his life. I could not help laughing at his story, though an examination
of the place next morning so far verified it, that his footprints and the
bear’s were clearly intermingled on the muddy shore of the stream. To
make up for his fright, he was extremely courageous when restored by tea
and a pipe. ‘If we would follow the trail with him, he’d go right slick
in for her anyhow. If his rifle didn’t shoot plum, he’d a bowie as ’ud
rise her hide, and no mistake. He’d be darn’d if he didn’t make meat of
that bar in the morning.’