Our next day's journey brought us again into heavy timber--another creek
bottom. The soil was rich and loamy, and the road we travelled was
moist, and in some places very heavy for our waggon. Several times the
latter got stalled in the mud, and then the whole party were obliged to
dismount, and put their shoulders to the wheel. Our progress was marked
by some noise and confusion, and the constant din made by Jake talking
to his team, his loud sonorous "woha!" as they were obliged to halt, and
the lively "gee-up--gee-up" as they moved on again--frighted any game
long before we could come up with it. Of course we were compelled to
keep by the waggon until we had made the passage of the miry flat.
We were dreadfully annoyed by the mosquitoes, particularly the doctor,
of whose blood they seemed to be especially fond! This is a curious
fact in relation to the mosquitoes--of two persons sleeping in the same
apartment, one will sometimes be bitten or rather punctured, and half
bled to death, while the other remains untouched! Is it the quality of
the blood or the thickness of the skin that guides to this preference?
This point was discussed amongst us--the doctor taking the view that it
was always a sign of good blood when one was more than usually subject
to the attack of mosquitoes. He was himself an apt illustration of the
fact. This statement of course produced a general laugh, and some
remarks at the doctor's expense, on the part of the opponents of his
theory. Strange to say, old Ike was fiercely assailed by the little
blood-suckers. This seemed to be an argument against the doctor's
theory, for in the tough skinny carcass of the old trapper, the blood
could neither have been very plenteous nor delicate.
Most of us smoked as we rode along, hoping by that means to drive off
the ferocious swarm, but although tobacco smoke is disagreeable to the
mosquitoes, they cannot be wholly got rid of by a pipe or cigar. Could
one keep a constant _nimbus_ of the smoke around his face it might be
effective, but not otherwise. A sufficient quantity of tobacco smoke
will kill mosquitoes outright, as I have more than once proved by a
thorough fumigation of my sleeping apartment.
These insects are not peculiar, as sometimes supposed, to the
inter-tropical regions of America. They are found in great numbers even
to the shores of the Arctic Sea, and as fierce and bloodthirsty as
anywhere else--of course only in the summer season, when, as before
remarked, the thermometer in these Northern latitudes mounts to a high
figure. Their haunts are the banks of rivers, and particularly those of
a stagnant and muddy character.
There is another singular fact in regard to them. Upon the banks of
some of the South-American rivers, life is almost unendurable on account
of this pest--the "_plaga de mosquitos_," as the Spaniards term it--
while upon other streams in the very same latitude musquitoes are
unknown. These streams are what are termed "_rios negros_," or
black-water rivers--a peculiar class of rivers, to which many
tributaries of the Amazon and Orinoco belong.
Our English comrade, who had travelled all over South America, gave us
this information as we rode along. He stated, that he had often
considered it a great relief, a sort of escape from purgatory, while on
his travels he parted from one of the yellow or white water streams, to
enter one of the "_rios negros_." Many Indian tribes settled upon the
banks of the latter solely to get clear of the "_plaga de mosquitos_."
The Indians who reside in the mosquito districts habitually paint their
bodies, and smear themselves with oil, as a protection against their
bites; and it is a common thing among the natives, when speaking of any
place, to inquire into the "character" of its mosquitoes!
On some tributaries of the Amazon the mosquitoes are really a life
torment, and the wretched creatures who inhabit such places frequently
bury their bodies in the sand in order to get sleep! Even the pigments
with which they anoint themselves are pierced by the poisoned bills of
their tormentors.
Besancon and the Kentuckian both denied that any species of ointment
would serve as a protection against mosquitoes. The doctor joined them
in their denial. They asserted that they had tried everything that
could be thought of--camphor, ether, hartshorn, spirits of turpentine,
etcetera.
Some of us were of a different opinion, and Ike settled the point soon
after in favour of the dissentients by a practical illustration. The
old trapper, as before stated, was a victim to the fiercest attacks, as
was manifested by the slapping which he repeatedly administered to his
cheeks, and an almost constant muttering of bitter imprecations. He
knew a remedy he said in a "sartint weed," if he could only "lay his
claws upon it." We noticed that from time to time as he rode along his
eyes swept the ground in every direction. At length a joyous
exclamation told that he had discovered the "weed."
"Thur's the darned thing at last," muttered he, as he flung himself to
the ground, and commenced gathering the stalks of a small herb that grew
plentifully about. It was an annual, with leaves very much of the size
and shape of young garden box-wood, but of a much brighter green. Of
course we all knew well enough what it was, for there is not a village
"common" in the Western United States that is not covered with it. It
was the well-known "penny-royal" (_Hedcoma pulegioides_), not the
English herb of that name, which is a species of _mentha_.
Redwood also leaped from his horse, and set to plucking the "weed." He
too, from experience, knew its virtues.
We all drew bridle, watching the guides. Both operated in a similar
manner. Having collected a handful of the tenderest tops, they rubbed
them violently between their palms--rough and good for such service--and
then passed the latter over the exposed skin of their necks and laces.
Ike took two small bunches of the stalks, crushed them under his heel,
and then stuck them beneath his cap, so that the ends hung down over his
cheeks. This being done, he and his comrade mounted their horses and
rode on.
Some of us--the hunter-naturalist, the Englishman, and myself--
dismounted and imitated Ike--of course under a volley of laughter and
"pooh-poohs" from Besancon, the Kentuckian, and the doctor; but we had
not ridden two hundred paces until the joke changed sides. From that
moment not a mosquito approached us, while our three friends were bitten
as badly as ever.
In the end they were convinced, and the torment of the mosquitoes
proving stronger than the fear of our ridicule, all three sprang out of
their saddles, and made a rush at the next bed of penny-royal that came
in sight.
Whether it is the highly aromatic odour of the penny-royal that keeps
off these insects, or whether the juice when touched by them burns the
delicate nerves of their feet I am unable to say. Certain it is they
will not alight upon the skin which has been plentifully anointed with
it. I have tried the same experiment often since that time with a
similar result, and in fact have never since travelled through a
mosquito country without a provision of the "essence of penny-royal."
This is better than the herb itself, and can be obtained from any
apothecary. A single drop or two spilled in the palm of the hand is
sufficient to rub over all the parts exposed, and will often ensure
sleep, where otherwise such a thing would be impossible. I have often
lain with my face so smeared, and listened to the sharp hum of the
mosquito as it approached, fancying that the next moment I should feel
its tiny touch, as it settled down upon my cheek, or brow. As soon,
however, as it came within the influence of the penny-royal I could hear
it suddenly tack round and wing its way off again, until its
disagreeable "music" was no longer heard.
The only drawback in the use of the penny-royal lies in the burning
sensation which the fluid produces upon the skin; and this in a climate
where the thermometer is pointing to 90 degrees is no slight
disqualification of the remedy. The use of it is sometimes little
better than "Hobbson's choice."
The application of it on the occasion mentioned restored the spirits of
our party, which had been somewhat kept under by the continuous attacks
of the mosquitoes, and a lively little incident that occurred soon
after, viz. the hunt and capture of a raccoon, made us all quite merry.
Cooney, though a night prowler, is sometimes abroad during the day, but
especially in situations where the timber is high, and the woods dark
and gloomy. On the march we had come so suddenly upon this one, that he
had not time to strike out for his own tree, where he would soon have
hidden from us in its deep cavity. He had been too busy with his own
affairs--the nest of a wild turkey upon the ground, under some brush and
leaves, the broken eggs in which told of the delicious meal he had made.
Taken by surprise--for the guides had ridden nearly on top of him--he
galloped up the nearest tree, which fortunately contained neither fork
nor cavity in which he could shelter himself; and a well-directed shot
from Redwood's rifle brought him with a heavy "thump" back to the ground
again.
We were all stirred up a little by this incident; in fact, the unusual
absence of game rendered ever so trifling an occurrence an "event" with
us. No one, however, was so pleased as the black waggoner Jake, whose
eyes fairly danced in his head at the sight of a "coon." The "coon" to
Jake was well-known game--natural and legitimate--and Jake preferred
"roast coon" to fried bacon at any time. Jake knew that none of us
would care to eat of his coonship. He was therefore sure of his supper;
and the "varmint" was carefully deposited in the corner of the waggon.
Jake did not have it all to himself. The trappers liked fresh meat too,
even "coon-meat;" and of course claimed their share. None of the rest
of the party had any relish for such a fox-like carcass.
After supper, cooney was honoured with a description, and for many of
the facts of his history we are indebted to Jake himself.