WE were now steering by compass. Our course was nearly north-west. This
we kept, as well as the formation of the country and the watercourses
would permit. After striking the great Shoshone, or Snake River, which
eventually becomes the Columbia, we had to follow its banks in a
southerly direction. These are often supported by basaltic columns
several hundred feet in height. Where that was the case, though close to
water, we suffered most from want of it. And cold as were the nights—it
was the middle of September—the sun was intensely hot. Every day, every
mile, we were hoping for a change—not merely for access to the water, but
that we might again pursue our westerly course. The scenery was
sometimes very striking. The river hereabouts varies from one hundred to
nearly three hundred yards in width; sometimes rushing through narrow
gorges, sometimes descending in continuous rapids, sometimes spread out
in smooth shallow reaches. It was for one of these that we were in
search, for only at such points was the river passable.
It was night-time when we came to one of the great falls. We were able
here to get at water; and having halted through the day, on account of
the heat, kept on while our animals were refreshed. We had to ascend the
banks again, and wind along the brink of the precipice. From this the
view was magnificent. The moon shone brightly upon the dancing waves
hundreds of feet below us, and upon the rapids which extended as far as
we could see. The deep shade of the high cliffs contrasted in its
impenetrable darkness with the brilliancy of the silvery foam. The vast
plain which we overlooked, fading in the soft light, rose gradually into
a low range of distant hills. The incessant roar of the rapids, and the
desert stillness of all else around, though they lulled one’s senses, yet
awed one with a feeling of insignificance and impotence in the presence
of such ruthless force, amid such serene and cold indifference.
Unbidden, the consciousness was there, that for some of us the coming
struggle with those mighty waters was fraught with life or death.
At last we came upon a broad stretch of the river which seemed to offer
the possibilities we sought for. Rather late in the afternoon we decided
to cross here, notwithstanding William’s strong reluctance to make the
venture. Part of his unwillingness was, I knew, due to apprehension,
part to his love of fishing. Ever since we came down upon the Snake
River we had seen quantities of salmon. He persisted in the belief that
they were to be caught with the rod. The day before, all three of us had
waded into the river, and flogged it patiently for a couple of hours,
while heavy fish were tumbling about above and below us. We caught
plenty of trout, but never pricked a salmon. Here the broad reach was
alive with them, and William begged hard to stop for the afternoon and
pursue the gentle sport. It was not to be.
The tactics were as usual. Samson led the way, holding the lariat to
which the two spare horses were attached. In crossing streams the mules
would always follow the horses. They were accordingly let loose, and
left to do so. William and I brought up the rear, driving before us any
mule that lagged. My journal records the sequel:
‘At about equal distances from each other and the main land were two
small islands. The first of these we reached without trouble. The
second was also gained; but the packs were wetted, the current being
exceedingly rapid. The space remaining to be forded was at least two
hundred yards; and the stream so strong that I was obliged to turn my
mare’s head up it to prevent her being carried off her legs. While thus
resting, William with difficulty,—the water being over his knees,—sidled
up to me. He wanted to know if I still meant to cross. For all answer,
I laughed at him. In truth I had not the smallest misgiving. Strong as
was the current, the smooth rocky bottom gave a good foothold to the
animals; and, judging by the great width of the river, there was no
reason to suppose that its shallowness would not continue.
‘We paused for a few minutes to observe Samson, who was now within forty
or fifty yards of the opposite bank; and, as I concluded, past all
danger. Suddenly, to the astonishment of both of us, he and his horse
and the led animals disappeared under water; the next instant they were
struggling and swimming for the bank. Tied together as they were, there
was a deal of snorting and plunging; and Samson (with his habitual
ingenuity) had fastened the lariat either to himself or his saddle; so
that he was several times dragged under before they all got to the bank
in safety.
‘These events were watched by William with intense anxiety. With a
pitiable look of terror he assured me he could not swim a yard; it was
useless for him to try to cross; he would turn back, and find his way to
Salt Lake City.
‘“But,” I remonstrated, “if you turn back, you will certainly starve;
everything we possess is over there with the mules; your blanket, even
your rifle, are with the packs. It is impossible to get the mules back
again. Give little Cream her head, sit still in your saddle, and she’ll
carry you through that bit of deep water with ease.”
‘“I can live by fishing,” he plaintively answered. He still held his
long rod, and the incongruity of it added to the pathos of his despair.
I reminded him of a bad river we had before crossed, and how his mule had
swum it safely with him on her back. I promised to keep close to him,
and help him if need were, though I was confident if he left everything
to Cream there would be no danger. “Well, if he must, he must. But, if
anything happened to him, would I write and tell Mary? I knew her
address; leastways, if I didn’t, it was in his bag on the brown mule.
And tell her I done my best.”
‘The water was so clear one could see every crack in the rock beneath.
Fortunately, I took the precaution to strip to my shirt; fastened
everything, even my socks, to the saddle; then advanced cautiously ahead
of William to the brink of the chasm. We were, in fact, upon the edge of
a precipice. One could see to an inch where the gulf began. As my mare
stepped into it I slipped off my saddle; when she rose I laid hold of her
tail, and in two or three minutes should have been safe ashore.
‘Looking back to see how it had fared with William, I at once perceived
his danger. He had clasped his mule tightly round the neck with his
arms, and round the body with his long legs. She was plunging violently
to get rid of her load. Already the pair were forty or fifty yards below
me. Instantly I turned and swam to his assistance. The struggles of the
mule rendered it dangerous to get at him. When I did so he was partially
dazed; his hold was relaxed. Dragging him away from the hoofs of the
animal, I begged him to put his hands on my shoulders or hips. He was
past any effort of the kind. I do not think he heard me even. He seemed
hardly conscious of anything. His long wet hair plastered over the face
concealed his features. Beyond stretching out his arms, like an infant
imploring help, he made no effort to save himself.
‘I seized him firmly by the collar,—unfortunately, with my right hand,
leaving only my left to stem the torrent. But how to keep his face out
of the water? At every stroke I was losing strength; we were being swept
away, for him, to hopeless death. At length I touched bottom, got both
hands under his head, and held it above the surface. He still breathed,
still puffed the hair from his lips. There was still a hope, if I could
but maintain my footing. But, alas! each instant I was losing
ground—each instant I was driven back, foot by foot, towards the gulf.
The water, at first only up to my chest, was now up to my shoulders, now
up to my neck. My strength was gone. My arms ached till they could bear
no more. They sank involuntarily. William glided from my hands. He
fell like lead till his back lay stretched upon the rock. His arms were
spread out, so that his body formed a cross. I paddled above it in the
clear, smooth water, gazing at his familiar face, till two or three large
bubbles burst upon the surface; then, hardly knowing what I was doing,
floated mechanically from the trapper’s grave.
. . . . . . .
‘My turn was now to come. At first, the right, or western, bank being
within sixty or seventy yards, being also my proper goal, I struck out
for it with mere eagerness to land as soon as possible. The attempt
proved unsuccessful. Very well, then, I would take it quietly—not try to
cross direct, but swim on gently, keeping my head that way. By degrees I
got within twenty yards of the bank, was counting joyfully on the rest
which a few more strokes would bring me, when—wsh—came a current, and
swept me right into the middle of the stream again.
‘I began to be alarmed. I must get out of this somehow or another;
better on the wrong side than not at all. So I let myself go, and made
for the shore we had started from.
‘Same fate. When well over to the left bank I was carried out again.
What! was I too to be drowned? It began to look like it. I was getting
cold, numb, exhausted. And—listen! What is that distant sound? Rapids?
Yes, rapids. My flannel shirt stuck to, and impeded me; I would have it
off. I got it over my head, but hadn’t unbuttoned the studs—it stuck,
partly over my head. I tugged to tear it off. Got a drop of water into
my windpipe; was choking; tugged till I got the shirt right again. Then
tried floating on my back—to cough and get my breath. Heard the rapids
much louder. It was getting dark now. The sun was setting in glorious
red and gold. I noticed this, noticed the salmon rolling like porpoises
around me, and thought of William with his rod. Strangest of all, for I
had not noticed her before, little Cream was still struggling for dear
life not a hundred yards below me; sometimes sinking, sometimes
reappearing, but on her way to join her master, as surely as I thought
that I was.
‘In my distress, the predominant thought was the loneliness of my fate,
the loneliness of my body after death. There was not a living thing to
see me die.
‘For the first time I felt, not fear, but loss of hope. I could only
beat the water with feeble and futile splashes. I was completely at its
mercy. And—as we all then do—I prayed—prayed for strength, prayed that I
might be spared. But my strength was gone. My legs dropped powerless in
the water. I could but just keep my nose or mouth above it. My legs
sank, and my feet—touched bottom.
‘In an instant, as if from an electric shock, a flush of energy suffused
my brain and limbs. I stood upright in an almost tranquil pool. An eddy
had lodged me on a sandbank. Between it and the land was scarcely twenty
yards. Through this gap the stream ran strong as ever. I did not want
to rest; I did not pause to think. In I dashed; and a single spurt
carried me to the shore. I fell on my knees, and with a grateful heart
poured out gratitude for my deliverance.
. . . . . . .
‘I was on the wrong side, the side from which we started. The river was
yet to cross. I had not tasted food since our early meal. How long I
had been swimming I know not, but it was dark now, starlight at least.
The nights were bitterly cold, and my only clothing a wet flannel shirt.
And oh! the craving for companionship, someone to talk to—even Samson.
This was a stronger need than warmth, or food, or clothing; so strong
that it impelled me to try again.
‘The poor sandy soil grew nothing but briars and small cactuses. In the
dark I kept treading on the little prickly plants, but I hurried on till
I came in sight of Samson’s fire. I could see his huge form as it
intercepted the comfortable blaze. I pictured him making his tea,
broiling some of William’s trout, and spreading his things before the
fire to dry. I could see the animals moving around the glow. It was my
home. How I yearned for it! How should I reach it, if ever? In this
frame of mind the attempt was irresistible. I started as near as I could
from opposite the two islands. As on horseback, I got pretty easily to
the first island. Beyond this I was taken off my feet by the stream; and
only with difficulty did I once more regain the land.
My next object was to communicate with Samson. By putting both hands to
my mouth and shouting with all my force I made him hear. I could see him
get up and come to the water’s edge; though he could not see me, his
stentorian voice reached me plainly. His first words were:
‘“Is that you, William? Coke is drowned.”
‘I corrected him, and thus replied:
‘“Do you remember a bend near some willows, where you wanted to cross
yesterday?”
‘“Yes.”
‘“About two hours higher up the river?”
‘“I remember.”
‘“Would you know the place again?”
‘“Yes.”
‘“Are you sure?”
‘“Yes, yes.”
‘“You will see me by daylight in the morning. When I start, you will
take my mare, my clothes, and some food; make for that place and wait
till I come. I will cross there.”
‘“All right.”
‘“Keep me in sight as long as you can. Don’t forget the food.”
‘It will be gathered from my words that definite instructions were deemed
necessary; and the inference—at least it was mine—will follow, that if a
mistake were possible Samson would avail himself of it. The night was
before me. The river had yet to be crossed. But, strange as it now
seems to me, I had no misgivings! My heart never failed me. My prayer
had been heard. I had been saved. How, I knew not. But this I knew, my
trust was complete. I record this as a curious psychological occurrence;
for it supported me with unfailing energy through the severe trial which
I had yet to undergo.’