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Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
The following alternative spellings were left unchanged:
maguey, maguay
muscale, muscalle
Tomochic, Tomochi
Carrol, Carroll
Mokulumne, Mokelumne, Mokolumne, Mokelumme
Barratt, Barrat
Brazos, Brasos
Tarimari, Taromari
Tuolumne, Tuolomne, Tuolome
Pittsburgh, Pittsburg
Parral, Parras
Tom McKenny, Tom McKinney
In several places a "(?)" or "[?]" appears in the text. These have
been left as printed.
AUDUBON'S WESTERN JOURNAL
1849-1850
[Illustration: JOHN WOODHOUSE AUDUBON]
AUDUBON'S WESTERN
JOURNAL: 1849-1850
Being the MS. record of a trip from New York to
Texas, and an overland journey through Mexico
and Arizona to the gold-fields of California
BY
_JOHN W. AUDUBON_
With biographical memoir by his daughter
MARIA R. AUDUBON
Introduction, notes, and index by
FRANK HEYWOOD HODDER
Professor of American History, University of Kansas
_With folded map, portrait, and original drawings_
Cleveland
The Arthur H. Clark Company
1906
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY
THE ARTHUR H. CLARK COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION. _Frank Heywood Hodder_ 11
BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. _Maria R. Audubon_ 21
AUDUBON'S WESTERN JOURNAL: 1849-1850
I. New York to Texas 41
II. Disaster in the Valley of the Rio Grande 58
III. Mexico from the Rio Grande to the
Mountains 84
IV. Across the Mexican Mountains to Altar 106
V. Through Arizona to San Diego 146
VI. California from San Diego to San Francisco 174
VII. A Tour of the Gold-fields 199
APPENDIX: LIST OF MEMBERS OF THE ORIGINAL
COMPANY 241
INDEX 245
ILLUSTRATIONS
JOHN WOODHOUSE AUDUBON _Frontispiece_
JESUS MARIA, LOOKING NORTHWEST; July 20, 1849 123
TWENTY-FIVE MILES WEST OF JESUS MARIA; July
29, 1849 131
SAN FRANCISCO, LOOKING EAST FROM THE WESTWARD
HILLS TOWARD SAN JOSÉ; May 30, 1850 191
HAWKINS'S BAR, TUOLUMNE, LOOKING SOUTHEAST;
April 1, 1850 219
"A DRY GULCH" AT COLOMA, SUTTER'S MILLS;
May 2, 1850 235
MAP OF AUDUBON'S ROUTE _At end of volume_
INTRODUCTION
Ordinarily events are the result of antecedent causes, but now and then
an apparently fortuitous incident upsets all calculations and changes
the course of history in a day. Of such a character was the discovery of
gold in California. It would be difficult to overstate its importance.
It led directly to a similar discovery in Australia and the combined
output of the two fields replenished the world's stock of precious
metals, shaped monetary systems, stimulated prices and powerfully
affected the economic and industrial development of the last half
century. Politically for the United States the discovery was the turning
point in the struggle between the sections. Texas had been annexed and
the South West wrung from Mexico largely for the purpose of equalizing
slave and free territory by providing the South with an outlet for
Western emigration comparable in extent with that possessed by the
North. The instantaneous settlement of California under circumstances
unfavorable to slavery produced a free state and gave the North a
majority in the Senate. The attempt to recover the lost ground brought
on the Kansas struggle and precipitated the war that destroyed the only
real cause of antagonism between the sections. Socially the results of
the discovery were not less important. Immediately a new state was added
to the Union. Ultimately the necessity of joining the new state to the
older ones opened the West to settlement, built the trans-continental
railways, reclaimed the desert and peopled the continent. Fifty
years ago Congress was petitioned to import "thirty camels and twenty
dromedaries" and their use as a means of crossing the Western deserts
was seriously discussed in books and newspapers.[1] Today there is
no part of this vast territory that is not within easy reach of the
railroad. Of the remarkable things accomplished in the United States
perhaps the most remarkable is the rapid movement of population from
seaboard to seaboard, and yet this movement has been strangely neglected
by historians. They follow minutely the course of Coronado and Radisson
but know little of J. S. Smith and scarcely take the trouble to trace
the routes of even so famous an explorer as John C. Fremont. They devote
much space to the difficulties of settling Jamestown and Plymouth and
very little to the hardships of the overland journey. They carefully
trace the campaigns of the War of 1812 but barely mention the wars that
have won the continent from the Indians. As throwing a side-light upon
one phase of this neglected movement Audubon's "Journal" is presented
to the public. But quite apart from this, the book is interesting as
a human document. Not only does it reflect the energy and strength of
character of the author but the glimpse it gives of the constancy of the
greater part of his companions and of man's humanity to man under the
most trying circumstances strengthens faith in the essential soundness
of human nature.
The Californian discovery was made in January of 1848. Wildly
exaggerated rumors of what had been found reached the Eastern states by
the middle of the following September. Official reports were received
in Washington in time for mention in the President's annual message of
December 5. The rush to California had already begun. As the continent
could not be crossed in the winter, the earliest to start went by water.
Large numbers embarked upon the long and dreary voyage around the
Horn or rushed to Panama and Nicaragua to take ship from the Pacific
seaports. As the spring opened, crowds collected at Independence,
Missouri, ready to begin the overland journey in May, which was as
early as it was safe to start. There were two overland routes from this
point. The northern one followed the Oregon Trail to Fort Hall and from
there crossed by way of the Humboldt River and over the Sierra Nevadas
to California. The southern route followed the Santa Fé Trail to Santa
Fé, where the emigrants divided, a part taking the "Old Spanish Trail"
to the north and a part General Kearny's route along the Gila on the
south. While some of the emigrants went as individuals, by far the
larger number went in companies. Stock was subscribed to meet expenses,
often by men who did not go in person, and the companies were organized
for mutual assistance and defense. The company which Mr. Audubon joined
was financed by his friends, the Kingslands, and was to be led by Col.
Henry L. Webb. Colonel Webb, a New Yorker by birth, had joined the
volunteers from Illinois at the outbreak of the Mexican war, and later
had been promoted to the command of a regiment. Having served in Mexico,
he knew something of the country. Partly for this reason but chiefly
no doubt in order to get an earlier start, the company was to take the
Mexican route. The wisdom of the choice might have been vindicated but
for the loss of life and the delay caused by the cholera. This scourge
was not, however, confined to the southern routes. Carried up by the
river boats to Independence, it attacked the emigrants before leaving
on their journey and, pursuing them to the mountains, lined the roads
across the plains with newly made graves.
Leaving New York, February 8, 1849, with about eighty men and a
capital of $27,000, Mr. Audubon proceeded by water to Philadelphia
and Baltimore, took the railroad to Cumberland and thence crossed the
Alleghanies by stage to Brownsville and Pittsburg. Here the company took
a river boat for Cairo, where they were joined by Colonel Webb. Changing
boats they descended the Mississippi to New Orleans, which they reached
February 18, ten days after leaving New York. After some time spent here
in the purchase of supplies, they took a boat for Brazos at the mouth
of the Rio Grande. From Brazos they were carried up the Rio Grande to a
point opposite Rio Grande City, where they landed on the tenth of March.
Here they were attacked by the cholera and ten men succumbed to the
dread disease. To add to their distress, the company's money was stolen
and only after great difficulty was a part of it recovered. Discouraged
by disease and misfortune, twenty of the men turned back. Then Colonel
Webb deserted his company, the men at the same time refusing to go
on under his leadership. For a time it seemed that the journey would
be abandoned but about half of the men asked Mr. Audubon to lead them
and bound themselves to go on under his command. More than a month was
required for reorganization and for the recovery of the sick, so that
it was not until April 28 that the start was really made. They were now
as late as the emigrants who started by the northern routes, and were
further from their goal.
Leaving the Rio Grande at Roma, the company took the main road to
Chihuahua, passing through Monterey, Saltillo, Buena Vista, Parras,
and Mapimi and reaching Parral June 18. Cholera still followed them
and here claimed another victim. Mr. Audubon had been twice attacked
but had been able to resist the disease. At Parral the company left
the highway and struck across the mountains to Sonora. On the western
slope towns were few and far between. Ures was reached August 22 and
Altar September 9. Leaving Altar they entered a desert inhabited only
by Indians living on lizards and grasshoppers. At the Pima villages
on the Gila they reached the line of General Kearny's march, which had
become the southern emigrant route. The march through the Gila valley to
the Colorado proved the most trying part of the journey. With supplies
for the men exhausted, without grass for the mules, and with little
water for either, the limit of endurance was almost reached. Crossing
the Colorado, the company turned northward through the desert to the
mountain passes and then southward to San Diego, whence they followed
the trail to Los Angeles. Here Mr. Audubon decided to send the greater
part of the company to San Francisco by sea, while he, with ten of the
men, drove the mules through by land. Crossing the coast range the route
now followed the Tulare valley and the San Joaquin River to Stockton.
At San Francisco the company was reunited and from here started for a
tour of the southern mines. Finding that they were already crowded and
that the first fruits had been gathered, Mr. Audubon turned with his
friend Layton to the northern mines. The two proceeded to Sacramento
and thence to Coloma and Georgetown, where the journal suddenly stops.
The trip was probably interrupted at this point and Mr. Audubon called
back to San Francisco to make preparations for his return home.
Throughout the whole of this long journey Mr. Audubon took notes of
scenes and occurrences by the way. In his descriptions he exhibits the
keen observation of the naturalist and the trained eye of the artist.
The result is a remarkable picture of social conditions in Mexico,
of birds and trees, of sky and mountains and the changing face of
nature, of the barrenness of the desert and the difficulties of the
journey, of the ruined missions of California, of methods of mining,
and of the chaos of races and babel of tongues in the gold fields.
It was manifestly impossible to keep a daily journal, and the entries
were made from time to time as opportunity occurred. Considering the
circumstances under which they were taken, the notes are remarkable for
their accuracy. It was Mr. Audubon's intention to rewrite and to publish
them in ten parts. One part was printed privately and given to a few
friends but distractions at home prevented the continuance of the work.
The notes were taken in a series of little books from which they have
been faithfully transcribed by his daughter. The only omissions are a
few personal references, which form no essential part of the narrative
and which she has thought best not to print. A few corrections have
been made in the orthography of common words which were misspelled as a
result of the haste in which they were written. Where names of places
and Spanish words were spelled phonetically, the correct forms have
been enclosed in brackets or given in notes at the places where they
first occur. In all essential respects the notes are printed exactly as
they were left by their author. Many of the names of places are names
of haciendas and ranchos, some of which could not be identified. Of
those identified, there is some variation in spelling upon the Mexican
maps of the period. A few notes have been added chiefly in explanation
of personal references in the text. The great bulk of Mr. Audubon's
sketches was lost. A few of those that were saved have been reproduced
and a portrait of Mr. Audubon, taken in 1853, has been added, together
with a map of his route.
F. H. H.
BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR
John Woodhouse Audubon, the younger of the two sons of John James
Audubon and his wife, Lucy Bakewell, was born in Henderson, Kentucky,
November 30, 1812. Those who recall the life of the ornithologist may
remember that at this time he was far from his days of prosperity, and
was trying to be a business man, with saw-mills and lumber; a venture,
which like all his business efforts, did not succeed. Therefore, almost
before the boy John remembered, the wandering days began for him, which
continued virtually all his life. During his boyhood these wanderings
were chiefly confined to that portion of the United States south of the
Ohio River, and largely to Louisiana, a section of country he always
loved.
As a child, though small and slender, he was strong and active and
delighted in the open air life which was indeed his second nature;
and he was proficient in swimming, shooting, fishing and all out-door
sports and pleasures, while still a boy. He was rather averse to the
needful studies which kept him from the woods and streams, but which his
mother never permitted him to neglect. She was, herself, the teacher
of her sons in their earlier years, and a most thorough one, as later
generations can testify, sending them to school only when she realized
that they needed contact with boys of their own age; but the home
education was never given up. Both she and Mr. Audubon were excellent
musicians, great readers, and most desirous that their children should
be prepared, as fully as possible, to enter the world as educated, and
even accomplished men. Drawing was an important matter always, and both
sons, Victor and John, became well skilled in this art, but in different
lines, the first in landscape, the second in delineating birds and
quadrupeds—or as the scientists say today, mammals—the latter being his
specialty, though the first intention was that he should be a portrait
painter.
The boys while children were usually together, and were sent to school
at the same time, though Victor was three years the elder, but at
times they were separated. Victor was a quiet, studious boy, and a
great favorite with the elder members of his mother's family, the
Bakewells, while John, who was full of mischief, very restless, always
most successful in getting his young cousins as well as himself into
all sorts of scrapes, was naturally less in demand. When Mr. and Mrs.
Audubon were wandering from place to place, Victor was frequently
with relatives in Louisville, and at an early age became a clerk in
the office of Mr. Nicholas Berthoud, who had married a sister of Mrs.
Audubon. He was in this position when his father sailed for England in
1826, while John remained in Louisiana with his mother at Bayou Sara,
where she was then teaching.
At this period of his life John spent much time drawing from nature,
and playing the violin, of which he was passionately fond all his life.
While his father was pushing the publication of "The Birds of America"
in England and Scotland, he at one time supplemented the slender
finances of the family, in a small way, by taking occasional trips on
the Mississippi river steamboats as a clerk. It was very uncongenial
work to the restless youth, and, from what can be learned, was rather
indifferently done; but he was a great favorite with all with whom
he came in contact, and usually found some one to help him over his
mistakes, and indeed on occasion to do his work, while he, with his
violin was in great demand on the decks of the steamboats, in those
days scenes of much gaiety, some of which was of more than doubtful
quality. After a comparatively short season of mingled work and play,
Mrs. Audubon withdrew him from what Louisianians called "the river," and
he returned to his work in painting and in collecting specimens which
his father wanted for the various friends and scientists with whom he
was now constantly in touch.
The elder Audubon upon his return from Europe took the family, after a
few weeks in Louisiana, further north, and they were some time in the
vicinity of Philadelphia and New York. In 1830 the two brothers were
left in America while Mr. and Mrs. Audubon were in England and France,
and again John tried his hand at clerkship with better success than in
his earlier years, but not for long.
On his return to America Mr. Audubon made plans for a summer in
Labrador and in 1833 made this journey, John with three other young men
accompanying him. The days were not only long, but arduous. John was not
quite twenty-one, and his love of fun was as strong as in his boyhood,
but he found none in being called at three in the morning to search
for birds, being frequently drenched to the skin all day, and working
with bird skins through "the interminable twilights." Nevertheless he
and his young companions found time to rob salmon preserves when the
fishermen would not sell, to slip on land when opportunity offered, to
attend some of the very primitive balls and other amusements to be found
on these desolate shores, and to extract pleasures which perhaps youth
alone could have found among such surroundings.
So passed the years taking boyhood and youth with them until 1834, when
the Audubon family all went to England and Scotland, where both young
men painted very steadily, making copies of many of the celebrated
pictures within reach of which they now found themselves. At this time
John confined himself almost wholly to copying portraits, principally
those of Sir Thomas Lawrence, whose friendship was most valuable to him,
of Van Dyke and Murillo, and, when in Edinburgh, giving great attention
to the beautiful work of Sir Henry Raeburn. Some of these early pictures
are still in the possession of the family, though many were sold and
many given away. He also painted some water colors of birds, which are
said to be good work by those who know them.
This period of study was broken, however, by a trip to the continent
taken by the brothers together. The route followed was the one then
called "The Grand Tour," extending as far as Italy. The brothers, always
most closely united, congenial in thoughts and tastes, thoroughly
enjoyed the novel scenes and experiences, for which they were well
fitted both physically and mentally. They were tall, handsome young men,
full of health and strength, and the joyousness of youth. The careful
preparation in the reading of books of travel and literature, and the
fact that they were excellent French scholars, added greatly to the
interest of the journey.
But busier days than these were in store, when the Audubons returned
to America, and the collection of new species demanded the attention of
the naturalist, and the assistance of his sons. Victor attended to most
of the business details, partly in England and partly in America, while
my father and grandfather searched the woods, and in 1836 went as far
south as the Gulf of Mexico. It was at the beginning of this trip that,
passing through Charleston, a visit was paid to the home of Dr. John
Bachman, and the attachment began between my father and Maria Bachman,
which resulted in their marriage in 1837.
Shortly after John and his young wife went to England, where his father
had again gone to superintend the continued publication of the plates in
London, and here their first child, Lucy, was born. Six months later,
John with his wife and child returned to America. The next two years
were spent partly in New York, partly in the south, in the vain hope of
finding health and strength for the delicate young mother, but all was
unavailing, and she died leaving two little daughters, one an infant.
Later John Audubon married an English lady, Caroline Hall, and to them
seven children were born, five of whom lived to maturity.
At this time the country place on the Hudson river near New York
City, which had been bought in 1840, was built upon. Today it is well
nigh lost in the rapidly advancing streets and avenues, but at this
time it was almost primitive forest, and here for some years lived
the naturalist and his wife, with the two sons and their respective
families. It is hard today to picture the surroundings of that time.
No railroad cut off the waters of the lovely river, then the highway
from the ocean to Albany, and alive with craft of many kinds. The other
three sides were heavily wooded; and neighbors there were none, for it
was not until some years later that other homes began slowly to appear
here and there. Few if any of the friends of the Audubons in those days
are left on earth, and the houses where they once lived have, with few
exceptions, either been torn down or so altered that their former owners
would not recognize them.
Minniesland with its large gardens and orchards, especially celebrated
for peaches, its poultry yards and dairy which added to the comfort of
the home and of the many guests who always found a welcome there, had
an interesting side in the elk, deer, moose, foxes, wolves and other
wildwood creatures which were kept for study and pleasure; and still
another in the books, pictures and curios within the ever hospitable
house, but more than all was the charm of the tall gray-haired old man,
who by talent, industry, and almost incredible perseverance won it for
those he loved.
The early days at Minniesland were very happy ones for all. The
"Quadrupeds of North America" had been begun and was of intense interest
to father and sons, and the work he was doing for this publication, the
superintendence of the animal life about the home, the varied enjoyments
and duties of the country place gave my father ample occupation. He
loved the Hudson and the Palisades, the woods and walks about him, was
devoted to his family and these were years he delighted to recall.
Many men were employed in one capacity or another and "Mr. John," as he
was always called, was a great favorite. He had the rare gift of keeping
these men friends, while he was perfectly understood to be the master;
they were thoroughly at home with him, yet never familiar, and this
position, so difficult to maintain, he held with all. As the village
of Manhattanville, a little lower down the river, grew in size, many of
the men from there used to walk up on summer evenings to help "haul the
seine;" for fish were plentiful and good in the Hudson then; and where
"Mr. John" was, disturbance or insolence was unknown, his orders to each
man were respected, his division of fish always satisfied.
An interruption in this tranquil life came in 1843 when Audubon the
elder went to the Yellowstone country, and both sons were anxious about
their father until his return; they felt that he was too old for such an
arduous journey, but he was determined to go, and his safe return ended
all alarm for his safety. Another break came in 1845 when my father went
to Texas to find mammals to depict in the new work being published, and
possibly birds not yet described. He took with him as sole companion of
his travels James B. Clement, one of the men about the place, in whom
he had—and most justly—perfect confidence. He was in Texas many months,
travelling quite extensively, and at a time when the Indians were not
friendly. Even more danger might be apprehended from the white men of
desperate character, who had drifted to that region either to escape
punishment for previous crimes, or to find themselves so far from law
and order that they could commit fresh ones in safety. It was on this
trip that my father met Colonel Hays, well known then as "Jack Hays the
Texan Ranger," between whom and himself a strong friendship was formed,
and to whom my father felt much indebted; as, knowing the country so
well, Colonel Hays gave him valuable aid in choosing routes, selecting
Indians as guides and hunters, and in avoiding camps and settlements
where he would certainly have been robbed, and possibly murdered, had
he offered to protect his possessions, for at that time all money had
to be carried in coin.
Upon this journey my father was very successful in securing specimens.
When he returned he brought one of his hunters, a half-breed Indian
named Henry Clay, a name which had probably been given to him in jest.
This man was my father's shadow; he was very skillful in the care of
the animals, a splendid boatman and fisherman and very valuable about
the place. But civilization was too wearisome for him, he left two or
three times and came back, but about 1852 returned to Texas with Captain
McCown.[2]
In 1846, the year following the Texan journey, John Audubon with
his wife and children went to Europe, in order that he might paint
pictures—still for the "Quadrupeds"—from some of the specimens he could
find only in the zoological collections of London, Paris and Berlin,
and he was absent on this work more than a year and a half. It was a
period of most arduous work; his letters home were very short, though
he was an easy and rapid writer. The reason for this brevity was, as
he often explains, that his arm and hand were tired with the long days
of steady painting; particularly when the fur of the animals he was
delineating was of unusual length, for this was before the days of "dabs
and smudges" and minuteness of detail was insisted on both by the elder
Audubon and by the engravers. These were long months to him as most of
them were passed in crowded cities, where he missed the forests and
rivers, his home and the free life to which he was accustomed. Many
times in the letters written to those at Minniesland, he declares his
intention of never leaving home again, an intention he was unable to
carry out.
In 1849 he joined a California company, being urged thereto by the
Messrs. Kingsland, who were warm personal friends and who were then
backing Col. Henry L. Webb who had been in Mexico and advocated that
route for the company he was collecting. My father's idea was that
such a journey offered splendid opportunities to secure specimens of
birds and mammals. It was proposed that he should give the company his
knowledge of a backwoodsman's life, which was extensive, and be second
in command to Colonel Webb, a responsibility which he rather hesitated
to accept, as he wished the freedom of leaving the party anywhere he
chose after reaching California. Finally, however, he signed papers with
Messrs. Daniel C. and Ambrose Kingsland, and Cornelius Sutton, (Colonel
Webb signing also), to stay with the company for one year, when they
expected to reach their destination and be on the high road to wealth.
In Colonel Webb's company the contracts were individual. The company
supplied everything but the personal belongings of each man and his
horse, and he in return was supposed to repay with legal interest his
share of expenses when he reached the El Dorado, and to this end his
work and his earnings were the company's for a year from the time of
signing. If when the contracts expired there were any profits, these
were to be divided in a certain ratio. My father's contract was signed
January 31, 1849, and the fact that he was going induced many of his
personal friends and acquaintances to join also. Almost all the men
employed at Minniesland went with "Mr. John." To the daughter of one of
these, Mrs. Alice Walsh Tone, I am much indebted for help in names and
dates.
The journey across the continent in 1849 with no regular means of
communication with home and friends, through a country virtually
unknown, and when Indians were still numerous; without cities to enable
travelers to get fresh supplies of food and clothing, and with no very
definite knowledge of the road, was a serious matter under the best of
conditions and on the best route. What it was with men who, with few
exceptions, knew nothing of the life before them, who were impoverished
by robbery, discouraged by death and disease and deserted by their
leader, upon a route of which my father never approved, may be best
learned from his "Journal." The journey was a terrible disappointment
to him, as he says: "my arsenic is broadcast on the barren clay soil of
Mexico, the paper in which to preserve plants was used for gun-wadding,
and, though I clung to them to the last, my paints and canvases were
left on the Gila desert of awful memories."
In July, 1850, he sailed for home, which he reached in safety after the
delay of a week at the Isthmus of Panama. Most unfortunately all his
paintings, which were of course sketches to be worked up from notes,
and most of the water colors he had made, nearly two hundred in all,
had to be left temporarily at Sacramento; later they were taken to
San Francisco and Mr. Robert Simson took charge of them for a time.
He entrusted them, at my father's request, to Mr. John Stevens and
with that noble man and true friend they went down in the wreck of the
steamer "Central America."
It would be interesting to follow the careers of those who made the
California journey with my father, but the lapse of fifty-six years
makes this almost impossible, and very few traces of the members of
the party can be found, nor indeed can any full list of those who left
New Orleans with him be made. James B. Clement remained in Stockton
as did Nicholas Walsh and John H. Tone; they became fruit growers and
were successful in the land of their adoption. Henry C. Mallory entered
business in San Francisco, married and lived in that city until his
death, now a number of years ago. Robert Simson died not long since;
he lived for some time in San Francisco, being a partner in a legal
firm, afterwards removing to Alameda. He married rather late in life,
and left a widow and one son. Langdon Havens returned to his home at
Fort Washington and many others also came back to the east. The greater
part of the company, I believe, remained upon the Pacific Slope; but I
have been unable to locate them or their descendants, except in the few
instances I have mentioned. Though the company proved an utter failure
financially, yet nearly every man eventually reimbursed the Messrs.
Kingsland for their outlay, and in five instances the friends of those
who died did for them that, which living they would doubtless have done
for themselves.
At the time of the California journey my father was thirty-six, tall,
strong and alert though always slender, keen of vision and hearing,
quick in movement and temperament, and with most tender and skillful
hands as those have testified whom he nursed in the dreadful cholera
days. He had inherited from his father the gift of making and keeping
friends among all classes, and of giving them confidence in him—the
result of his quick and deep sympathy, his unselfishness and his
absolute truthfulness. He was never indolent; whatever work had to
be done, his was the hardest part—he never shirked, never grumbled.
As evidence of this trait of his character I quote from one of his
companions, Lieutenant Browning, whose son has kindly given me some
extracts from his letters: "Mr. Audubon is always doing somebody's
else work as well as his own;" "Mr. Audubon never thinks of himself,
I never knew such a big-hearted man." I will touch on only one other
characteristic. He was subject to periods of the deepest depressions,
a trait also inherited from his father, which sometimes weighed his
spirits down for days, and which it seemed impossible for him to
dispel. Often on this California journey the effort to appear bright and
cheerful when he was in one of these moods physically exhausted him, and
in some of his letters he speaks of the relief it was when night came
and he was alone, and had no need to look or be other than he felt. He
never outlived these attacks as the naturalist did, perhaps because his
life was so much shorter.
My father's home-coming showed him many sad changes, for his father was
now not only an old but a broken man, and the spirit of the home was no
longer joyous. Father, mother, and sons had always been most united,
unusually so it seems, as many incidents and events are recalled.
Possibly this deep affection was the result of the struggles of early
days, which, throwing them so much on each other for companionship,
developed a sympathy with one another which lives full of separate
interests would not have fostered—possibly the great similarity of work
and tastes drew them closer to each other than when such conditions do
not exist, but whatever the reason, it is certain that the ties which
held them together were never loosened but by death; and so, when in
January, 1851, he who had been the light of the home passed away, the
break was most keenly and deeply felt.
In 1853 two new houses near the original one, now grown too small for
the many children, were completed and these Victor and John Audubon
occupied with their families, the mother living with one son or the
other as the spirit moved her. The continued publication of "The
Quadrupeds" and the octavo edition of "The Birds" occupied both my uncle
and father. The latter reduced all the large plates of the birds to the
desired size by means of the _camera lucida_, his delicate and exact
work fitting him for the exquisitely minute details required. Much of
each winter was spent in the southern states, securing subscribers.
In 1853 a great sorrow came in the death of a little daughter, and soon
after even a heavier. Victor Audubon began to fail in health, the result
of a fall which at the time was thought to be of no moment, but which
had injured the spine. Through long years it was agony to my father to
witness the constant decline of the brother with whom his entire life
was so intimately associated and to whom he was so deeply attached.
Nothing could stay the progress of the malady and on the seventeenth of
August, 1860, came the parting which had so long been dreaded.
During this long period of my uncle's illness all the care of both
families devolved on my father. Never a "business man," saddened by
his brother's condition, and utterly unable to manage at the same
time a fairly large estate, the publication of two illustrated works,
every plate of which he felt he must personally examine, the securing
of subscribers and the financial condition of everything—what wonder
that he rapidly aged, what wonder that the burden was overwhelming!
After my uncle's death matters became still more difficult to handle,
owing to the unsettled condition of the southern states where most of
the subscribers to Audubon's books resided, and when the open rupture
came between north and south, the condition of affairs can hardly be
imagined, except by those who lived through similar bitter and painful
experiences.
Worn out in body and spirit, overburdened with anxieties, saddened by
the condition of his country, it is no matter of surprise that my father
could not throw off a heavy cold which attacked him early in 1862. On
the evening of Tuesday, February 18, he was playing on his violin some
of the Scotch airs of which he was so fond, when suddenly putting down
the instrument he said he had so much fever he would retire. Before
morning delirium set in, and for two days and nights he wandered in
spirit over the many lands where once in health and strength the happy
boy, the joyous youth, the earnest man had traveled in body. Especially
was the Californian trip present in his fevered mind, and incidents and
scenes were once more vividly before him, until on the twenty-first he
fell asleep never to awaken here, and, as the stormy night closed in,
almost at the same hour as that on which his father died, he too took
the last journey and entered into that unknown land, and was "forever
free from storm and stress." His forty-nine years of life had been
very full ones, he had touched the extremes of joy and sorrow, he had
known failure and success; like his father he had never done anything
indifferently. His enthusiasm carried him over many difficulties, his
sympathy and generosity endeared him to every one and, when the end of
the busy life came, there was left a vacant place, never to be filled,
in the hearts of those who knew and loved him.
MARIA R. AUDUBON
SALEM, NEW YORK, March 2, 1905.
AUDUBON'S WESTERN JOURNAL
1849-1850
CHAPTER I
NEW YORK TO TEXAS
A year of quiet at my happy home had passed since my return from my
last voyage to England, when "the fever" as it was called began to rage
in New York, and as I sat, convalescent from a fever of a different
kind at the time, of more danger than my present trip, I listened to
the tales of speedily accumulated fortunes. At first I heard them with
complete scepticism, again with less, until in some degree faith in the
tales began to be awakened in my mind, and at last I thought it might
possibly come to pass that I should go to California; but still it was
very vague, and I scarcely dwelt on the idea of so long a trip except
as a dream. However, I mentioned it to two or three of my friends asking
what they thought, and answers came, as is always the case on occasions
when advice is asked, so various, that I was bewildered, and finally I
felt I must come to those in my own home to aid me in my decision. But
even here I was thrown back upon my own judgment. My noble father could
give me no advice now, but in 1845, when I was in Texas, he had written
to me: "Push on to California, you will find new animals and birds at
every change in the formation of the country, and birds from Central
America will delight you."
After long talks over the "pros and cons," I concluded to go for a long
eighteen months from my beloved home, and decided to join "Col. H. L.
Webb's California Company" which was being organized. I was appointed
second in command owing to my knowledge of backwoodsman's life and the
experience of my Texas trip; and after eight weeks of weariness and
anxiety found I was to take charge of eighty men and, with $27,000.00
belonging to the Company, was to meet Col. Webb at Cairo.
I had talked with fathers, and with young men who wished to learn all
about a backwoodsman's life in half an hour, made purchases of arms and
implements and various needful articles, and finally all was ready, and
the date of departure decided upon.
_Feb. 8th, 1849._ A day of hurry began, and three o'clock found us on
board the steamer "Transport," surrounded by the company and a crowd
of their friends and ours to see us off. Fathers took my hands in both
theirs, and in scarcely audible voices begged me to take care of only
sons, brothers asked me to give counsel and advice to younger brothers,
men I had never seen gave hearty hand clasps that told of sound hearts,
and said: "My brother's with you, treat him right and if he is _my_
brother he'll die for you, or with you." The final words of clergymen
as they gave us their parting advice and blessing, were drowned by the
tolling of the last bell. Its knell went to my heart like a funeral
note, and I was too much overcome to answer the cheer of the hundreds
who came down to see us off, and in silence waved my cap to my brother
and friends, and in deep mental sorrow prayed God for courage and
ability to do all I had promised to try to do.
My men looked back to New York's beautiful battery, and I paced the
boiler deck almost alone, watching the red sunset and cooling my burning
face and aching head with the north-west wind, cold and frosty from the
snow covered palisades, turning often to look up "our North River" to
see if I could get one glimpse of that home so long to be unseen.
The tide was low so we had to take the outside, and I went to the
bow to look over Sandy Hook towards the broad Atlantic, and to try to
realize that the Pacific had to be seen before I could again return to
my own beautiful coast. It was a most curious sight as I entered the
cabin of the boat to see the different feelings exhibited; some were
in deep thought; some in sorrowful anxiety; some gay, and again others
with evidently forced merriment; but in the main, cheerfulness was
certainly on every side, and when I had to announce that we had been
promised what was not on board, a good supper, not a murmur was heard,
and merriment was created by the imitations of the orders of the New
York eating-houses such as: "roast beef rare," "plum pudding both kinds
of sauce," etc.
Our cabins were not the most comfortable, nor was the floor of the
dining saloon too soft for some of our city men, but we slept soundly
from one until four; took breakfast at five, and at eight were driving
in the quiet, dignified streets of Philadelphia towards the Schuylkill.
Very cold weather had followed us, and the heavy northwester of the day
previous retarded our progress across the Chesapeake from Frenchtown.[3]
At Baltimore we took our luggage at once to the railroad station, and
went to the United States and Union Hotels, where for a dollar and a
quarter each we had supper, bed and breakfast, and went off, all in
better spirits, for Cumberland, where, after a miserable dinner and
supper combined, we packed into fourteen stages, having paid nearly an
average of two dollars each for extra luggage, fifty pounds being the
regular allowance for each man.
_Feb. 10th._ Fortunately we had a full moon, and as the mountains
were all ice and snow it was "as light as day." Overloaded, and with
top-heavy coaches, as our hind wheels would keep slipping first on
one side, then on the other, to see what the front ones were doing, it
was most extraordinary we did not capsize, all of us; but no accident
occurred, and at eight next morning we had descended Laurel Hill on a
run, and were slowly winding the lanes of a more civilized country.
As it was Sunday, many cheerful groups, gaily dressed, ornamented the
stoops and sunny sides of the houses and barns of the contented farmers
of western Pennsylvania, as we passed on to Brownsville, where we
arrived at noon, glad enough to be safely landed on the banks of the
Monongahela. We reached Pittsburgh at nine the same evening, went to
the Monongahela House and had a comfortable supper, but as most of our
luggage was on the steamer for Cincinnati, I went on board and took my
berth.
Morning came, and after a few kind words from my relations at
Pittsburgh, we left, and had one of the hundreds of monotonous voyages
down the Ohio that are yearly performed by the steamers. At Cincinnati
I was met by two additional volunteers, engaged by Col. Webb, and was
much pleased by their appearance, though I should have preferred seeing
backwoodsmen and men who knew more of the life we were going to lead,
but we must hope on, and trust to Providence.
Passages and fares at hotels, etc., included, were now calculated
to see how we had estimated the cost of each person to Cairo, and we
found that for each one it was one dollar and forty-five cents over the
twenty-five dollars allowed, and I took passages to the latter place
direct, remaining only four hours at Louisville, where I had the good
fortune to find my uncle W. G. Bakewell waiting for me, and dined with
him while our boat was putting out some freight at Albany, below the
falls. When I joined my party I was told that some of the men had stolen
a valuable pointer dog, and that a telegraphic notice had been sent
after them; but on inquiring I found it had been purchased, no doubt
from a thief, so we sent it back from Cairo.
Large flocks of geese and ducks were seen by us as we made the mouth
of the Ohio, and the numbers increased about Cairo. The ice in the
Mississippi was running so thick that the "J. Q. Adams" returned after
a fruitless effort to ascend the river. All Cairo was under water,
the wharf boat we were put on, an old steamer, could only accommodate
thirty-five of our party, so that the other thirty had to be sent to
another boat of the same class; the weather was extremely cold, with
squalls of snow from the north with a keen wind, there was no plank
from our boat to the levee of Cairo, the only part of the city out
of water. Will it be wondered at that a slight depression of spirits
should for an instant assail me? But when a man has said he will do a
thing it must be done if life permits, and in an hour we found ourselves
by a red hot stove, the men provided with good berths for the place,
cheerfulness restored, and after an hour's chat, while listening to
the ever increasing gale outside, we parted for the night to wake cold,
but with good appetites even for the horrible fare we had, and as young
Kearney Rodgers said, as we looked at the continents of coffee-stains,
and islands of grease here and there, with lumps of tallow and peaks of
frozen butter on our once white table cloth, "Is it not wonderful what
hunger will bring us to?"
Here we found Col. Webb with his wife and son; I was much pleased
with the dignified and ladylike appearance of Mrs. Webb; once she had
been very beautiful, now she was greatly worn, and had a melancholy
expression, under the circumstances more appropriate than any other, for
her husband and only son were about to leave her for certainly eighteen
months, and perhaps she was parting with them for the last time. We
chatted together in rather a forced conversation, until the "General
Scott" for New Orleans came by, and then went on board paying eight
dollars for each man and five dollars each for Col. Webb's three horses;
so much for Cairo, I don't care ever to see it again.
I found my uncle, W. G. Bakewell, on board making the trip to New
Orleans, and my journey was as agreeable as it could be, where all my
associations were of a melancholy nature. I thought of past joys and
friends dead and scattered since the days when I knew this country so
well.
The river was very high, and the desolation of the swamps, the lonely
decaying appearance of the clay bluffs, picturesque as they are, added
to the eternal passing on of this mighty stream towards its doom, to be
swallowed in earth's great emblem of eternity, the ocean, told only of
the passing of all things.
_February 18th._ Four days from Cairo found us at New Orleans, and a few
hours enabled me to find hotels for our party, and at six o'clock I was
able to tell Col. Webb that I had done all I could that night and would
be with him at nine next morning, and left for the quiet of my aunt's[4]
home.
February 19th was spent in running all over New Orleans, ordering
horse and mule shoes, bacon, flour, bags, tools, ammunition, and making
arrangements to change our certificates of deposit for such funds as
would pass in Mexico. I called with Col. Webb on General and Mrs. Gaines
and was most kindly received by both, and afterwards asked to call
again, but had no time, as every minute was occupied with my business.
Two of our men had to be returned from this place of bars, billiards and
thirsty souls, and one of our otherwise best men was dismissed because
he met some of his old "friends" (?) who would insist not only on a
jovial dinner, but masked balls and all the other concomitants, and
after four days of this, a unanimous vote of the company expelled him.
Sunday is selected at New Orleans for the departure of vessels to all
parts of the world and at ten o'clock on the morning of March the 4th,
we left in the steamer "Globe" for Brazos, north of Rio Grande. We
descended the river to the mouth, but anchored there, as there is a
dangerous bar, and the weather not looking favorable the Captain of our
frail vessel deemed it prudent to wait until dawn before attempting to
go further. We left our anchorage at daybreak, the cross seas of the
outer bar breaking over the bows at almost every wave, and I felt that
if a real gale came up from the south-east our trip to California would
soon end. The day continued as it had begun. I went to my berth and
could not have been persuaded that it was not blowing hard if I had not
been able to see the water from my porthole. The night came on with a
full moon and the trade wind of the Gulf just fanned a ripple on the old
swell to send millions of sparkling lights in petty imitation of those
spangling the heavens.
Three such nights and four days of hot sun, and we were running over
the bar at Brazos in only seven or eight feet of water. Not a landmark
more than ten feet high was in sight, but we could see miles and miles
of breakers combing and dashing on the glaring beach, broken here and
there by dark, weather-stained wrecks of unfortunate vessels that had
found their doom on this desolate shore.
Brazos, like Houston in 1837, is nothing if you take away what belongs
to government, a long flat a mile wide, extending for a good distance
towards the Rio Grande, is kept out of reach of the sea by a range of
low sand hills, if drifts of eight to ten or fifteen feet deserve the
name; so like those on all our low shores from Long Island to Florida
that every traveller knows what the island of Brazos is. The inner bay,
however, looking towards Point Isabel is beautiful, and but for the
extreme heat would have given me a splendid opportunity for one of my
greatest pleasures, sailing.
We found a few cases of cholera had occurred here, and Major
Chapman[5] with the kindness so generally shown by our officers to
their countrymen, sent off our party at once in the government steamer
"Mentoria." At New Orleans I could not insure our money over the bar of
the Rio Grande without an immense premium, so I, with Biddle Boggs and
James Clement, having landed the horses brought with us, went overland
from Brazos to Brownsville opposite Matamoras, thirty-two miles, long
ones. We took all our money with us, and started in buoyant spirits. At
10:30, March 8th, I found myself riding along the beach of this barren
island; for six or eight miles we went merrily on, watching the little
sand-pipers and turn-stones, and enjoying the invigorating sea-breeze,
as the sun was intensely hot, and when, from time to time we passed
through narrow lanes of chaparral where the breeze was shut out, and
the dust followed our horses, we were exceedingly oppressed.
We had all seen Texas before, and like sailors once familiarized with
the sea whom an hour restores to old habits and thoughts, so with the
man of the prairies, and we all felt at home at once. The country
is flat, showing here and there in the distance some of those bold
prominences of clay represented so beautifully by the Prince de Neuwied
in his wonderful illustrations of the West.[6] These near the Rio
Grande, are, of course, only miniatures of the "Chateaux blancs" of the
northern Mississippi. After our long ride of thirty-two miles, with only
a hard boiled egg each for our mid-day meal, at three o'clock we reached
Brownsville where the rolling of bowling-alleys and the cannoning of
billiard balls was all that seemed to enliven the village at that hour.
I went to find the Quartermaster to know where to put our money for
safety, and was most kindly received by Major Brice[7] who took charge
of it and put it in the strong box at Fort Brown. From this place we had
next morning a fine view of Matamoras, and the American-like appearance
rather startled me from my old belief of the low standard of all things
Mexican, for it was the only town like a town I had seen; but I resumed
my old opinion when I was told that all the good houses had been built
by Mr. McGown, who had resided there for years, and so far I have not
seen anything in the shape of architecture worthy the name, except the
old missions about San Antonio de Bexar.
_Brownsville, March 8th._ Almost a calm this clear morning, but
occasionally a soft breeze, so gentle as just to wave the white cover of
the table at which I sat. From time to time a distant hammer sluggishly
drove a nail, and the proud cock was heard to boast his self-importance
in a shrill crow, the same I have heard from Berlin to this lonely
place; the mocking-birds sang just as they did in my happiest days in
beautiful Louisiana; my heart went back to my home, and a foreboding of
evil seemed to come over me.
Brownsville is one of those little places like thousands of others in
our Southern states; little work and large profits give an undue share
of leisure without education or refinement, consequently drinking-houses
and billiards with the etc. are abundant. The river here is narrow
and rapid, and crossed by two ferry-boats swung on hawsers in the
old-fashioned way stretching from bank to bank of the great "Rio Grande
del Norte." They do a thriving business, as Matamoras contains many
Mexicans who do both a wholesale and retail "running business," that
is, smuggling.
_March 10th._ Col. Webb and the company came up last evening on the
"Mentoria," Captain Duffield. He stayed over night and after purchasing
a few barrels of rice at about twice its cost at New Orleans, and one
or two little additions to our already large stock of necessaries, we
set sail in the "Corvette," Captain O'Daniel. Some time was lost in
our progress that night, as we stuck on the bar just above the town,
however we soon went on, and I found this river quite different from
the usual run of its channel, as after every rise, which is not often
at this season, the channel is left full of mud, and the deepest water
for a week or so _outside_ the regular channel.
I do not believe any part of this country can be good for a thing, as
the rain is so uncertain in its favors. The miserable Mexicans, who live
far apart, at distances of ten or even twenty miles from each other, do
not plant their patches of corn with any certainty that it will mature,
the rain failing to come to fill the ears more frequently than it comes.
The ranchos are forlorn "Jacals" (a sort of openwork shed covered with
skins and rushes and plastered with mud, here so full of lime and marl
that it makes a hard and lasting mortar), precisely alike, varying only
in picturesqueness of tree or shrub, or rather shrub alone, for there
are no fine trees here, though the musquit[8] and willow sometimes
arrive at the height of twenty or twenty-five feet, and back from the
river the hackberry attains a tolerable size.
A tall reed of rank growth in thickets, and in other places a dwarf
willow in patches like the young cottonwoods along the banks of the
Mississippi, are the chief growth.
The water is warm, and so full of lime as to create, rather than allay
thirst; what but necessity could ever have induced settlers to remain
here I can not tell, for the whole trip from Brownsville to Camp
Ringgold[9] does not present one even tolerable view; and the most
pleasing sight to us was our own bright flag, one minute fluttering in
a southeast breeze, then gently falling to its rough flag-staff, and
again, five minutes after, blowing furiously from the northwest, so
changeable are the winds; we hoisted our flag in return, and came to,
just under Major Lamotte's[10] tent.
Col. Webb went in to see him alone, to induce him to allow us to go as
far as Roma, but it appeared that Major Chapman had given orders to the
contrary, as our boat was so large that her return would be doubtful,
so we were taken only two miles further up the river, and put out on
the Mexican side, on a sandbar, opposite Rio Grande City. It was two
o'clock, the sun pouring down on us, the mercury 98 degrees in the
shade, nevertheless with all our winter blood in us, we had to unload
our heavy luggage. Casks of government tents and camp equipage, which we
were obliged to roll sixty or seventy yards through mud and sand, was
hard work. This began to tell the tale. The good men went at it with a
will, the dandies looked at their hands, touched a bacon barrel, rubbed
their palms together, looked again, and put on gloves; but it would not
do, and out of our ninety-eight men, only about eighty were at their
work with good will and cheerful hearts, but all was soon done, and I
gave a sort of melancholy glance at the "Corvette" as she started off.
The Captain had been very kind to us and we gave him three cheers, and
turned to set up our tents for the first time. We adhered closely to
military style, and our straight line of tents did not vary; dry sand
or wet mud had no effect on our position. In the cool of the evening
after I had done all I could for the comfort of those around me, I
stretched myself out, with hat, coat and boots off, to look at the busy
scene around me. Gaily and cheerfully everything went on, under a clear
sky like that of August at home, with all the soft, balmy, summer-like
feeling. About me were the familiar notes of dozens of mocking-birds and
thrushes. I opened out the nucleus of my collections, a little package
of birdskins; a new thrush, a beautiful green jay, a new cardinal, were
side by side with two new wood-peckers and a little dove, all new to
our fauna, and I carefully spread them out to dry, and admired them.
The sun went down, our supper was ready, and never did a company enjoy
their meals more than we did for the first two days we were ashore, when
exercise and good health gave a relish to everything. Our guard was set
and detailed for the night, and I turned in on my blankets with a short
prayer for health and continuance of blessings on my family.