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ha i. nee hk a‘, } v iy My A Lea nA Se Ny i 4 NABIINN ANY Suni hohas . Ta A) vith bay hy if We {4 Ati ayant ny Nis Has hai ti LO it Na ia Kt is y We 0 Hie “ By 4 BN ay Ki | ? i Bey) , Kt ey) LOS MA ra ith Cs ME RRO y Pe 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 22 Audubon’s Western Journal 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 fre- quently with relatives in Louisville, and at an early /aee) became’ a clerk) in) the jofiice or vir Nicholas Berthoud, who had married a sister of Mrs. Audubon. He was in this position when Biographical Memoir 23 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 indiffer- ently 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 steam- boats, in those days scenes of much gaiety, some of which was of more than doubtful quality. Aftera 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 24 Audubon’s Western Journal 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 sur- roundings. 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 Biographical Memoir 25 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 Law- rence, whose friendship was most valuable to him, of Van Dyke and Murillo, and, when in Edin- burgh, giving great attention to the beautiful work of Sir Henry Raeburn. Some of these early pic- tures 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 prepara- tion in the reading of books of travel and literature, and the fact that they were excellent French schol- ars, added greatly to the interest of the journey. But busier days than these were in store, when the Audubons returned to America, and the collec- tion of new species demanded the attention of the naturalist, and the assistance of his sons. Victor 26 Audubon’s Western Journal 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 super- intend 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 fam- Biographical Memoir a7 ilies. 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 wel- come 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 persever- ance 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 28 Audubon’s Western Journal about the home, the varied enjoyments and duties of the country place gave my father ample occu- pation. 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 Biographical Memoir 29 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 30 Audubon’s Western Journal 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." 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.’ Phe 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 minute- ness 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 ~ 1 John Porter McCown resigned his commission in 1861 to join the Confederate army, in which he served through the war as a major general. — F. H. H. Biographical Memoir 31 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 jour- ney offered splendid opportunities to secure spec- imens 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 respon- sibility 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 22 Audubon’s Western Journal 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 acquaint- ances 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 Biographical Memoir 33 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 “‘Cen- tral inmrernica.”’ 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 mem- bers 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 Stock- ton 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 34 Audubon’s Western Journal 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 move- ment 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 abso- lute truthfulness. He was never indolent; what- ever 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 Biographical Memoir 35 thinks of himself, I never knew such a big-hearted man.” [I will touch on only one other character- istic. 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 sym- pathy 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 36 Audubon’s Western Journal 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 Biographical Memoir 37 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 sub- scribers 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 rup- ture 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 38 Audubon’s Western Journal 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 “‘for- ever 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. Huis enthusi- asm carried him over many difficulties, his sympa- thy 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 i ih eth ti OM hea f ay AUS i i we irae Nail Neu ae | a a i HON NAN Ni Tay, wae iy Ae NN Ri i Dey i Oui et ‘ 4) PE Dots at Hal eas) SOI Aaa AGRON TMU R INR: Oo aan mabe A TSH RIAN ‘ Aa Hs wn SO Ah INA Say “iM ? M, Yt, i Rivanns la 1 Ayal i i au t vA, : t} MARaICAA HER yi SD MSN CASRN AINA AS i PUAN NUL EN NR RR SANG OREN moni FAIRING Reo ’ BHAA Ud eSD ih map ODN RON ne Ii We TRAN i y y “iy ; NA | i) DR ny} ty Minded AAT daa DAE AA TN, ‘ aN iy 4 i ay Wiis \ WC UR (fy i ! ih iy ry Hnd sonny CHAPTER f 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 asa 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 Cali- fornia, you will find new animals and birds at every change in the formation of the country, and birds from Central America will delight you.” 42 Audubon’s Western Journal 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 New York to Texas 43 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 merri- AA Audubon’s Western Journal ment 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 Phila- delphia towards the Schuylkill. Very cold weather had followed us, and the heavy north- wester of the day previous retarded our progress across the Chesapeake from Frenchtown. At Baltimore we took our luggage at once to the rail- road 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. roth. Fortunately we had a full moon, and as the mountains were all ice and snow it was 1 Frenchtown was the western terminus of the New Castle and Frenchtown Railroad, one of the first railroads built in the United States and a part of the early route between the East and the West. With the passing of the road, the town entirely disappeared. It was located at the head of the Elk River branch of Chesapeake Bay, below the present site of Elkton. New York to Texas 45 ‘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 Browns- ville, 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 com- fortable 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 volun- teers, 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. 46 Audubon’s Western Journal 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 New York to Texas 47 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 cir- cumstances 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. 48 Audubon’s Western Journal 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’ 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. 1 Mrs. Alexander Gordon.— M. R. A. New York to Texas 49 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 depar- ture 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 | 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. 50 Audubon’s Western Journal 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. Nota 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 ves- sels that had found their doom on this desolate shore. Brazos, like Houston in 1837, 1s 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’ with the kindness so generally shown by our officers to their country- men, sent off our party at once in the government steamer) Mentoria.”’ At New. Orleans) could 1 ‘William Warren Chapman was brevetted major for gal- lant conduct in the battle of Buena Vista, and died in 1859. New York to Texas (st 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 re- stores 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 dis- tance some of those bold prominences of clay repre- sented so beautifully by the Prince de Neuwied in his wonderful illustrations of the West.’ These near the Rio Grande, are, of course, only minia- tures of the “Chateaux blancs” of the northern 1 Travelsin the Interior of North America, by Maximilian, Prince of Wied-Neuwied (London, 1843). Reprinted in Thwaites’s Early Western Travels, 1748-1846 (Cleveland, 1905). 52 Audubon’s Western Journal 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 Browns- ville 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’ 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 Amer- ican-like appearance rather startled me from my old belief of the low standard of all things Mex- ican, 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 ham- mer sluggishly drove a nail, and the proud cock was heard to boast his self-importance in a shrill 1 Major Benjamin William Brice served through the Civil War in the paymaster’s department and became a major gen- eral at its close. New York to Texas 53 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, conse- quently 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 toth. Col. Webb and the company came up last evening on the “‘Mentoria,” Captain Duffield. He stayed over night and after pur- chasing 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 54 Audubon’s Western Journal 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 fail- ing to come to fill the ears more frequently than it comes. The ranchos are forlorn “‘Jacals” (a sort of open- work 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’ and willow some- times 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 Missis- sippi, are the chief growth. The water is warm, and so full of lime as to create, rather than allay thirst; what but necessity 1 The mesquit or mesquite is a tree, resembling the locust, of which there are several species in Mexico and the south- western part of the United States. New York to Texas 55 could ever have induced settlers to remain here I can not tell, for the whole trip from Brownsville to Camp Ringgold’ 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’ 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, never- theless 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 rol] sixty or seventy yards through mud and sand, was hard work. ‘This began to tell the tale. 1 Camp Ringgold was an American military post below Rio Grande City. Davis’s rancho, mentioned later, was half a mile atove Camp Ringgold. 2 Joseph Hatch La Motte, brevetted a major for gallant conduct at Monterey, resigned from the service in 1846 and died in 1888. 56 Audubon’s Western Journal 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 nine- ty-eight men, only about eighty were at their work with good will and cheerful hearts, but all was soon done, and [ gave a sort of melancholy glance at the “Corvette’).as she'started off. ‘The Captam 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 twa 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 New York to Texas 57 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 contin- uance of blessings on my family. CHAPTER) I DISASTER IN THE VALLEY OF THE RIO GRANDE March 13th, 1849. Daylight came in beauti- ful and calm, but we were enveloped in a dense fog, so heavy that though the clear sky could be seen over head, not more than fifty yards could be distinguished about us, and the tents looked as if we had had a heavy rain in the night. Col. Webb went over to Camargo to report himself and the company to the Alcalde and returned at night with a Mr. Nimons, and it was arranged that they should go next day to China’ to purchase mules. Rob Benson was sergeant of the guard that night, and I took a few turns around our camp with him and turned in, but about eleven was called to see J. Booth Lambert, who was very sick. Dr. Trask began to fear his illness might be cholera, but it was not in every respect like what he had seen of that disease in the north. At three o’clock, however, he seemed much easier and more composed, alas, the composure of cholera. What does it foretell? But in this instance to me “igno- rance was bliss.” At five I was up again, mustard plasters, rubbing and a tablespoonful of brandy every half hour, with camphor, etc., were faithfully 1 China is located on the Rio San Juan about fifty miles from the Rio Grande. Disaster in Rio Grande Valley 59 administered, but all we knew and did was without avail, and at one o'clock he was gone. Poor fellow, he was kind to his companions, cheerful at his work, and twenty-four hours previously, was, to all appearance, perfectly well, and playing a game of whist with his brother and uncle. For the last six or eight hours of his illness all the camp seemed to keep aloof from him, and all the tents on that side of the camp were deserted except Simson’s and Ha rrison’s, and those I ordered off. When Hinckley, Liscomb and Walsh came back from Rio Grande City with his coffin, | had prepared him for burial, for his brother was too prostrated with grief to do any- thing. At five o’clock fifty of us followed him to the grave. As we thought he would have wished, and knew his friends would prefer, we buried him on the American side, in the grave-yard back of Davis’ Rancho. Sadly we walked back with a feeling that this might not be the only case of the dread disease. No time, however, was left for thought; as soon as I entered the camp Lambert’s messmates came to beg me not to put them again in his tent. I told them I had no idea of doing so, gave them a new tent, struck his, levelled the ditches around it, and burned the withered boughs that had been put to shelter it. This done I went to rest if I could, 60 Audubon’s Western Journal being on this night of March 15th more anxious than J had been for years. I had just dropped into a troubled sleep, when I was called to look at Boden, one of the most athletic, regular men we had, who complained of great weakness and nausea. We had, of course, talked over Lambert’s case, and as men will always try to assign causes for everything, whether they understand matters or not, we had said Lambert was always delicate and had overworked himself, but, here was Boden, a most robust, well-formed man, who had not exposed himself in any way to illness, and so we tried not to fear for him, but morning, March r6th, found him too weak to stand, and he showed signs of all the horrors of this dreadful disease. His broad forehead was marked with the blue and purple streaks of coagulated blood, and down both sides of the nose and blackening his whole neck the veins and arteries told that it was all over with him. ‘‘What hurts you, HampP” I asked, as I saw distress in his face. ‘‘My wife and children hurt me, Mr. John,” was his answer, which sent a thrill to my heart; I, too, had wife and children. I said what I could to console him, poor enough, doubt- less, but from my heart, God knows, and with tears in my eyes, turned away to go to attend to Liscomb and Whittlesey, both just taken. I gave proper directions and at Dr. Trask’s suggestion went to Col. Webb’s tent to tell him we Disaster in Rio Grande Valley 61 must strike tents and leave the place at once. I met with a decided refusal at first, but on my repeating my request and stating the facts for a second time, he consented. The company was called and told that as previously arranged Col. Webb was going on to China to purchase mules, and that I was in charge of the camp, and would at once make arrangements to remove all the men who were well. Providence here sent the steamer “Tom McKenny” passing on her way to Roma. I went on board and made the agreement that for one hundred dollars all who could go should be taken to Roma, and we at once set to work to pack and hurry everything on board, retaining only what I thought necessary for the three, now dying, men I had with me. I called for volunteers who responded instantly, and more than were needed, to remain with me; those who were finally decided upon for the sad duties before us, were Robert Simson, Howard Bakewell, W. H. Harrison, Robert Benson, Leffert Benson, John Stevens, James Clement, Nicholas Walsh, Talman and Follen, with the two Bradys who were friends of Boden, A. T. Shipman, W. H. Liscomb and Justin Ely. As Dr. Trask could be of no further use, we insisted on his going on board the boat, as Follen was with us and knows a great deal about medicine, 62 Audubon’s Western Journal though leaving home just before taking his degree as a physician, deprives him of a title. All arrangements being made, I only waited for the boat to come up, and in a few minutes I had the gratification of hearing her last bell, and seeing her push off from our miserable camp for Rio Grande City. When the order was given to go on board and take all the luggage, many started with only their saddlebags, either in terror, or in apathy, from the effect of the air on their systems. Scarcely more than twenty men were willing to take provisions enough to feed on for even one day. David Hudson showed himself one of the most energetic and helpful and there were some twenty others, but I was too anxious and too hurried in directing and working as well, to notice any but the most faithful, and the most unfaithful. I took Langdon Havens on board, never expect- ing to see him again, he looked pale, yellow, blue, black, all colors at once, the large blood vessels of the neck swollen and black, showing how rapidly the disease was gaining on him, and begged Trask to do all he could for him. Then I came ashore and saw the boat off, turned away and stood for a moment to draw a long breath and wipe my streaming face, the mercury was 99 degrees in the shade. I looked at the group of good men who had reluctantly left me and had assembled in the Disaster in Rio Grande Valley 63 stern of the boat to bid me good-bye; in silence they took off their hats, not a sound was heard but the escapement of the steam. Sorrow filled my heart for the probable fate of so fine a body of men, but it was no time now for reflections, I had three dying men on my hands, and the business of the camp to attend to. I went to the sick tents; poor young Liscomb worn out and heart broken sat leaning against the tent where his father lay dying, looking as pallid and exhausted as the sick man, and almost asleep ; I roused him and sent him to my tent to get some rest. Edward Whittlesey was next, looking as if he had been ill for months; his dog, a Newfoundland, was walking about him, licking his hands and feet and giving evidence of the greatest affection; from time to time smelling his mouth for his breath, but it was gone. I slowly walked to Boden’s tent but there was no change from the stupor into which he had fallen; and I sat down to wait, for what? All exertions had been made to save our brave men, and all had failed. Like sailors with masts and rudder gone, wallowing in the trough of a storm-tossed ocean, we had to await our fate, one of us only at a time going from tent to tent of our dying companions to note the hour of their last breath. I suddenly thought I would try one more resource, and I sent John Stevens to Dr. Campbell 64 Audubon’s Western Journal at Camp Ringgold, requesting him to tell the Doctor, if he did not know who I was, that we were Americans, and demanded his assistance. It came, but alas, his prescriptions and remedies were just those we had been using, calomel as soon as possible, mustard externally, great friction, opium for the pain, and slight stimulants of camphor and brandy. John Stevens had just returned, when Howard Bakewell, [who] had been his quarter of an hour watching the sick, came into my tent, where I was lying on my blankets, exclaiming, ““My God, boys, I’ve got it, Oh, what a cramp in my stomach, Oh, rub me, rub away.” Simson and Harrison took him in hand, and I read and re-read Dr. Campbell’s directions which we followed implicitly, but all to no purpose; one short half hour found Howard insensible to pain or sorrow. He asked me to tell his mother he had died in the Christian faith she had taught him, and his friends that he had died at his duty, like a man. So went one of our days opposite Davis’ rancho, on the never-to-be-forgotten Rio Grande. At four o’clock, p. m., two of our small company were dead, and two were lying senseless, and J told the noble fellows, who, forgetting self, still strug- gled for the company’s good, that we would stay no longer in that valley of death, but to make every preparation to leave, and so they did. I was able Disaster in Rio Grande Valley 65 to help them but little, for with what I had under- gone the last fifty hours, and the terrible death of my young cousin, Howard Bakewell, I was utterly exhausted. Simson, Clement and John Stevens went with me across the river to the town, and the rest packed what was most valuable, and hired men to guard the camp that night. I lay on a bed in a small house belonging to Mr. Phelps, listening and awaiting the arrival of the bodies of Bakewell and Liscomb, who were brought over under the direction of Harrison and Simson, and in a sort of a dream I heard their footsteps, sprang from the bed, and Bakewell was laid upon it. J waited for the rest of the party with my saddlebags containing the company’s money; that was all of value that I thought of, and sometimes I wonder I| thought of anything, I was so weary. But Clement brought them and Lis- comb too, and the latter was laid out in the same room with poor Howard. We then all went to Armstrong’s hotel, Clement carrying my bags and valuables, and arriving found two more of our party down with cholera. Dr. Campbell came to see us and did all in his power for the sick, and indeed for all of us, and told us it would be unsafe for us to keep our money bags, but to give them to the bar-keeper telling him their value, and promising to pay him well for his trouble in caring for them. 66 Audubon’s Western Journal To tell how that night was passed would be more than I can do; Nicholas Walsh and A. T. Shipman became worse; I sent at once for Dr. Campbell and he passed the night with us. The heavy trade-wind from the south-east sighed through the open windows of the long twenty- bedded room we were in, the deep moans of young Liscomb, who, dreaming, saw nothing but the horrors of his father’s death, our own sad thoughts, and the sickness of Walsh and Shipman, and our anxiousness, and perhaps nervousness, chased sleep away. Morning came, and our friends had to be buried, and when this sad duty was over, we asked for our money, and to our amazement were told it was gone, had been delivered to one of our men. This was untrue, and we sent at once to the landlord and demanded our money. He coldly answered, “I never saw you, gentlemen, when money 1s left in this house, it is generally given to my charge, and then I am responsible for it.” It was useless to explain that we had been unable to see him before, and, at Dr. Campbell’s suggestion, we took charge of the man to whom we had intrusted it, and sent for the magistrate who took the evidence for and against, and committed the man to trial. As there was no jail, or place of security in which to confine him, we chained him to a musquit stump, and stood guard over him forty-eight hours, assistance from Disaster in Rio Grande Valley 67 the garrison of Fort Ringgold having been refused us by Major La Motte. March 18th. Today Harrison died of cholera after about twelve hours sickness, and I lost his assistance, which had been most valuable, and for a time that of Simson, who was well nigh crazy at the death of his friend, and who was besides com- pletely under the influence of cholera, having been in the air of the malady nearly a week. The next day he was up again, his strong constitution, and still stronger mind, aiding his recovery, and again I had his services, given with his whole heart. Today we told White, the man we held prisoner, that we were so enraged that we intended to hang him that night, or have the money back. When the sun was about an hour high, he said if we would let him go, he would tell where he had hid the money; we promised that if he recovered the money he might get away. At dusk we went with him to find it, but his accomplice had been ahead of him; never shall I forget his tone of despair, when on removing some brush and briars by a large cactus he exclaimed, ‘““My God, it’s gone.” Accustomed to the summary way of judging and executing delinquents in Texas, he thought our next move would be to hang him. He swore by his God, his Saviour, and all that men held sacred, that that was where he had left the money, and 68 Audubon’s Western Journal prayed to be let go. Not one of us doubted the truth of what he said now, but we took him back, and again secured him, and that night Simson and Horde arrested Hughes, whom we thought to be his accomplice, finding him in a gambling house surrounded by his cronies. He, too, was secured and ironed, and slept on the ground, waking up in the morning demanding his “bitters,’ and as impudent as ever. This day, March 19th, Mr. Upshur, a gentleman acting as attorney and agent for Clay Davis at Rio Grande City, and who had shown the greatest sympathy and kindness to us in our troubles, and exerted himself to the utmost to help us, called me to him, led the way to his room, closed and locked the door. He then asked me if I could swear to my money if Isawit. I told him I could not, but described it as well as I could remember. He showed me three or four thousand dollars in gold coin of different nations, and asked me again if I could swear to it. I could not, though I fully believed it was ours. He looked in my face so closely, that for an instant I thought he doubted © who and what I was; but I met his clear eye, with one as honest, and slowly he drew a piece of brown post-office paper from his pocket, and asked: “Is that your handwriting?” “No,” was my answer, “but it is that of Mr. Hewes of New Orleans, it is his calculation of five hundred dollars in sover- Disaster in Rio Grande Valley 69 eigns and half eagles which Layton and Hewes placed in my charge, and now I can swear to my money if that paper was with what you have showed me.” He told me he had always been satisfied it was mine, as he knew there was not such an amount as I had lost, in the settlement. He counted it twice, took my receipt, and as we went to Camp Ringgold to leave it with the Quarter- master, Lieut. Caldwell, who was always most kind, Mr. Upshur told me the manner in which this portion of our money had been regained. Don Francisco, a Mexican, and father-in-law of Clay Davis, was sheriff for the time, as the cholera had taken off the regular officer of “Star County.” Whether Don Francisco was taking a midnight walk: to) see, the’) fate of the | “Californians, or watching what others might be doing to them, we could never find out, but either he had followed White and Hughes until they separated, after which he could only watch one, which he did until the thief had buried his share, which the Don promptly removed; or else, with the wonderful power of trailing which Indians and Mexicans possess, on the fact of our loss being made known to him, he may have found and followed the tracks of the thieves, and on discovering the money think- ing this was all, have given up any further search, until the trails were obliterated by the footsteps of others. I may add here, that Don Francisco 70 Audubon’s Western Journal generously refused any compensation for what he had recovered, saying we had suffered enough. The “Tom McKinney” which had taken our party to Roma brought back eighteen or twenty of the men on the way back to New Orleans. At first | thought they had returned to be of some assistance, but judge of my disappointment when I learned the truth. The Bensons, Bradys, Barclay, Tallman, Follen, Cowden, Ely and others were determined to go home. ‘The Bensons came to me and said they were sorry to leave me, but they found they were not fit for such a journey as they had undertaken; many of the others went with a simple ‘Good-bye,’ and some did not even come up the hill to see me, and among these were some of whom I did not expect it, Walker, especially, for I thought a good deal of him, and had entrusted him with the care of the sick on their way to Roma; he never sent me any reason for not bidding me good-bye, but I attributed it to the sudden news of Harrison’s death. Desolate, indeed, did I feel as I watched the boat start on her return trip taking some of my very best men, or those I had thought were such, and I realized how little one can judge from appearances or when all is going smoothly. I was now left with only Simson, Clement, John Stevens, Nic Walsh, Mitchell and Elmslie, with Shipman very ill. We were, however, encouraged by good Disaster in Rio Grande Valley 7g reports of those at Roma, Langdon Havens was recovering, and out of fifty-two more or less ill, only two had died, though twenty were yet too weak to move. Horde, Upshur and Simson were taking most vigorous measures to recover our stolen money, and we again had Hughes on trial. He swore falsely again and again, that he knew nothing of it. We stood guard on him until we were compelled to rejoin our party, having recovered only about three thousand five hundred dollars, and lost all my papers, receipts, accounts up to date, besides letters of credit and introduction. I walked down to Camp Ringgold to see if possibly I might have a letter from home by a steamer just arrived, and on the road met Lieut. Browning on his way to join our company. I introduced myself to him and appointed an hour to meet him at the hotel at Davis’s rancho, and went on to Major La Motte’s tent for letters. He was engaged when [ arrived, and too weary to sit down, I stretched myself on the rushes he had for the floor of his tent and com- menced a conversation with Captain McCown, on the subject of our troubles. He did not know me, and began by: ‘The Audubons are well known in their profession, but————.” I interrupted him by telling him he was too hard on me at first sight, and he was a little confused, but his frank apology soon put us on a friendly footing. 2 Audubon’s Western Journal On my return to Davis’s rancho, I saw poor Dr. Kearney who had undertaken the medical charge of the party; and I heard of the lives he had saved, and hoped still to have his aid for our suffering company. but the fatigue he had undergone was too much for him, and the day following this he was no more. He was buried at Camp Ringgold, — where he had been cared for by Dr. Campbell, and nursed by his cousin, John K. Rodgers, one of my friends, who was so debilitated that he was obliged to return north. Having done all we could to recover our money we left for Mier, via Roma, at the hottest hour of the day, three o’clock, hoping to arrive before dark, but after two hours stopped for shade and rest, for the heat, owing to our debility, was insupportable; at dusk we went on and reached Roma about eleven at night. Roma, named after General Roman of Texan celebrity, is situated on a sandstone bluff, perhaps a hundred feet high, but like all the rest of the country on this line, with no trees, only an inter- minable chaparral of musquit, cactus (of three species), an occasional aloe, maguay’ and wild sage, at this season covered with its bluish-purple flower, almost as delicate as the light green of the leaf. With the exception of the large, coarse 1 Maguey is the Spanish name for the century plant. Disaster in Rio Grande Valley 72 cactus, which ought to be called “giganteus,” almost all the plants are small leaved; worst of all, every tree, shrub and plant is thorny to a degree no one can imagine until they have tried a thicket of “tear-blanket” or “cat’s claw.” The distant view was exquisitely soft, hill and valley stretching for miles about us, looking like a most beautifully cultivated country, the bare spots only like small fields, and the rest deluding the weary traveller in the belief that the distance is a change from the arid, bleak country through which he is riding. We turned in at a small store, found a loaf of bread and some whiskey, and lay down on the floor with our saddles for pillows, and blankets for beds, and slept soundly. At daylight I made up our party, saw them over the river in a small flatboat and rode on, thinking of our situation and wondering again and again how I could have been so thoughtless as to entrust our money to anyone, even with Dr. Campbell’s advice, and what course to take now. I could, of course, do nothing but await my interview with Col. Webb, who had written to bring the prisoners along and he would get the money. The difficulty was that by the laws of Texas a man can not be taken out of his own county to be tried, and it is also against the law to lynch him. Then, too, five men could not easily remove a desperado with some twenty ac- complices, through twenty-five miles of wilderness. 74 Audubon’s Western Journal I was so weak I was but just able to continue to ride, and so depressed in spirits that I was almost in despair. We reached our camp on the Alamo River, a little creek three miles from Mier, and I was surprised to see a carriage as we rode up. In a minute I saw Col. Webb sitting in it with one foot on the back seat and Dr. Trask bathing it. He had had a touch of diarrhoea and had hired a carriage to ride down from S——— where he had received my letter advising him of our loss, and jumping out of the conveyance hastily, had sprained his ancle and was in great pain. I found all in disorder, and the men came flocking round me, and, as I told them our experiences since I had written, they, in return told me of their own adventures. Tonight, March 21st, Col. Webb was taken very ill with bilious cholera, and we thought he would have died; we worked over him until morning when he was better. March 22. Cholera broke out again this morn- ing, and I was a sufferer, but not to die of it, and was lying twelve hours after my attack resting, when I was called to see young Combs who had just been taken ill. The night before Mr. Upshur had sent for me, and a small force, to aid in a guard he wanted over a man he thought had a portion of our money, and, as was my custom, I called for Disaster in Rio Grande Valley WAS volunteers (a lesson I learned from Jack Hayes’ when I was in Texas), and Combs was one of the first to come forward. He was so debilitated | refused to let him go, and it was quite a task, tired and ill as I was, to convince him, it was his strength, not his spirit I doubted. How glad he was now, that I had not allowed him to go. Alas, he had a longer journey before him. At ten next morning the fatal stupor came over him. Hiais friend J. J. Bloomfield had been like a brother to him, untiring in his devotion, and when in a few hours Combs ceased to breathe Bloomfield almost collapsed him- self. Of the entire company that started with us for California, at one time numbering ninety-eight, Hudson, Bloomfield, Bachman and Damon were - all who were able to help me perform the last rites for their companion. After two hours hard work we had dug a grave, and returned to camp, the soil was a lime-like one, so hard that every inch had to be picked. Our whole camp was silent, as we wrapped Combs in his blankets; “‘not a drum was heard nor a funeral note,” came strongly to my mind, and about twenty of the company started to follow to the grave; the burning heat of the day was past and the sun was just setting in a sky without a cloud. All 1 Col. John C. Hays, the Texas ranger and Indian fighter, who won a national reputation at the siege of Monterey. He went to California in 1849, became first sheriff of San Francisco and afterward United States surveyor-general for California. 76 Audubon’s Western Journal moisture seemed to have left the face of nature, the distant prairies, broken only here and there by a musquit, gave a wild desolation to the scene, and as we fell into line without an order being given, I thought I had never seen a more forlorn, haggard set of men. Sadly indeed, did we bear our late companion to his last home, and when we reached the grave only eleven men had had strength to follow. We lowered the body with Guivlanats and a ¢ead ithe) funeral iservice., VAs said, “Let us pray,” all kneeled, and when I added a short but heartfelt prayer for courage, energy and a return of health to our ill-fated company, not a dry eye was amongst us; not one man but felt our position one of solemnity seldom, if ever, experienced before by any of us. We returned to our desolate camp to look on others still in danger and needing consolation, even if we could not give relief. So ended our last day on the banks of the Alamo, and we retired to our tents to think on who might be the next to go, all ideas of business being for the time driven from our minds; even those not ill, seemed almost apathetic. March 23d. Again came morning with its fiery sun burning and drying everything. Break- fast was tasted, but not eaten. A committee from the company came to know what should be done. Col. Webb with one of our doctors and four men went off to Mier, to get out of the sun, for with all Disaster in Rio Grande Valley 77 his boast of, “I live as my men live,” he said he “Should die in that sun.” I was obliged to go back to Rio Grande City about our money, so I told the men that we had better wait and see what further money we could recover and how our health was likely to be. All acquiesced, and with Clement and Simson [ left for Roma on my way to Rio Grande, where I recovered four thousand dollars more of our money; [I still hoped to regain the balance, about seven thousand dollars, but it was never found. To tell of the dull monotony of this place would be most tedious, nearly as hard to think of as to endure. I found the officers of the camp my most sympathetic companions, Captain McCown, Dr. Campbell, Lieuts. Caldwell, Hazzard and Hayne, and Captain Deas. Four days of fruitless examinations passed, and one night I had made my blankets into a bed, and was trying to find a soft position for my weak and bony legs, when Clement came to tell me I was wanted in Judge Stakes’s room; with Lieut. Browning I went over. At a circular table covered with books and papers, lighted by a single candle, sat Clay Davis, his fine half-Roman, half- Grecian head resting on his small, well shaped hand, his position that which gave us the full beauty first of his profile, then of full face; his long black hair with a soft wave in it gave wildness 78 Audubon’s Western Journal and his black moustache added to a slight sneer as he looked at a Mexican thief standing before him; he was altogether one of the most striking figures I have ever seen. Opposite was Judge Stakes, also a very handsome man, as fair in hair and com- plexion as Clay Davis was dark. Behind him stood Simson with his Vandyke head and peaked beard; he was in deep shadow, with arms folded, and head a little bowed, but his searching eyes fixed keenly on the prisoner. One step in advance stood Don Francisco putting question after question to the thief, a little further off stood three other rascals, their muscular arms tied, waiting ‘‘adjudication.” On the other side, in the light, sat another Mex- ican holding the stolen property which had been recovered; and behind him a table with glasses, bottles and a demijohn. Lieut. Browning and I sat on a cot bed covered with a Mexican blanket, watching the whole scene, denials, confessions, accusations, threats, and one after another piece by piece was produced of our property. All the clothes were recovered, amid questions and oaths in Spanish and English, until we abandoned all hope of regaining anything more. With Lieut. Browning I left to return to Mier, but half-way between Davis’s rancho and Roma met the company in wagons which they had hired. All were well, but so weary and debilitated they Disaster in Rio Grande Valley 79 had decided to go home. I continued on my way to see Col. Webb and get his ideas on the course to be pursued. I received his orders and left at two o’clock that night with his son, Mitchell, and Lieut. Browning; regained the company, called the men together, read their agreement to them, and said all I could to remind them of the obliga- tions they were under to go on and fulfil their contract, but almost universal refusal met my appeal. Only twenty-one agreed to go on; what a falling off from ninety-eight! Out of those who agreed to go on two were cooks, two teamsters, two servants, and some few who said they did not care for the company, they only wanted to go to California. Can it be wondered at that I doubted suchymeni: | )L) left) them! all), to’ reconsider’, them position, and went off to think over my own troubles, and make up my mind how to act. In half an hour I returned and told the men my determination. “J have thought of my position in the company, I have done all I could in the interests of the company, but now I am going home. I am not old enough to preach to you, but should you go home, let contentment and gratitude for what you have be gained by the hardships and sorrows you have endured, and may God bless those who go on, and those who return.” So ended “Col..Webb’s California Co.” Fortune, always fickle, now changed. No 80 Audubon’s Western Journal steamer came to take us back; for two days we were quite determined to take the voyage home- wards, but with returning health the men began to feel encouraged, and I thought perhaps I ought to make another effort to go on. I consulted all I could on the subject, and of course had varying opinions. Captain McCown said:. “Go back, no one can do anything with volunteers, you have no power to compel obedience; now you go back honorably, and you don’t know what you will have to endure on a march through Mexico.” Lieut. Caldwell urged me to go on, said “it was military education never to give up, so long as there was any possibility of the original idea being carried out.” Slowly I walked along thinking. I had not found the men disobedient, and I believed the cholera was the chief cause of discouragement, and the fact that Col. Webb had left the men in their distress the source of the anger against him. I decided that I could go on, and determined to make one more effort. ‘That evening while sitting under an ebony tree, about eight o’clock, in the darkness which follows so rapidly on the short southern twilight, I heard a song from one of our company, and in a few minutes a chorus, good spirits seem to have returned, and leaving my seat I went over to Armstrong’s Hotel. On the counter of the bar-room lay Lieut. Disaster in Rio Grande Valley SI Browning; two or three persons were seated at his feet, and on stools around the room lounged, or sat, our little band, our saddles, blankets, etc., filling a corner of the room. General Porter was there listening to the close of achorus. One of the party pushed a saddle over for me to sit on, and I began my little address: “How strange it is that the thought of home should, in one short day, so change your spirits; who would have thought that fifty such men would be turned back by the first diff- culties? What will you say to your friends? Forget your homes for a time and go on like men.” But the old answer came, “‘We won’t go on under the present management,” and “We won’t go on with Col. Webb.” I told them it was not possible for them to goon with Col. Webb, as an hour before I had received a communication from him saying his health would not permit him to go on with us, and appointing a time to have a business interview with him before he left on his return home. A silence followed this announcement, and then Lieut. Browning said “‘Let’s go on with Mr. Audu- bon.” Three cheers gave their answer, but IJ told the men not to decide then in a moment of excite- ment, to wait until morning and make up their minds in cool blood, as I wanted no more change, and this would be their last resolve. At ten next morning we met, and all but six agreed to go on, and we at once moved to a camping ground five 82 Audubon’s Western Journal miles back from the Rio Grande, out of the way of cholera, to feed up our weak, and make our arrangements to leave. I at once ordered from Alexander sixty mules, thirty to be first-class saddle mules, and thirty good, average pack mules. It took nearly a month to make all our prepara- tions, wind up our business with Col. Webb and others, and to put our sick men in good travelling condition. When we had removed our provisions from Camp Ringgold, where we had stored them, our heaviest work was done, and we started for Mier, but found we had not mules enough and stopped at ———— to get more, and here we also repaired the miserable wagons that had been bought at Cincinnati, arranging our guard and other matters. Henry Mallory and I counted our money, and allowed a hundred days as the time requisite for our journey, and our financial calcu- lations gave sixty-six dollars and four cents for each man. How the responsibility of taking forty-eight men, most of them wholly ignorant of the life before us, through so strange and wild a country, weighed upon me, I cannot express, but we were too busy to have much time to think, and moved on twenty miles to Mier. Luckily our wagons broke down again, so we concluded to leave them, and lost another week disposing of them, and sel- ling goods we were unable totake. At Mier I saw Disaster in Rio Grande Valley 83 Col. Webb off, with his proportion of money and provisions. Mier is like every other Mexican town I have seen, it is composed of one square only, and all the rest suburbs, the houses built of adobe. ‘To the southwest, hills, parched and arid, give an unpleas- ing foreground of the superb view of the mountains of Cerralvo, all the blue of Italy was again before me, with the exception of the blues of the Mediter- ranean Sea. Two more of our company returned to us here, one of whom, Ulysses Doubleday, was so weak and reduced that I left him in charge of his friends Bachman and Elmslie, and gave him what money he needed to carry him home. I certainly thought him a dying man, but it was otherwise ordained, and he reached his friends safely and well. Bach- man and Elmslie were true to me throughout all. CHAPTER’ ITT MEXICO FROM THE RIO GRANDE TO THE MOUNTAINS April 28th, 1849. The company started today, and I expect to follow early tomorrow, and join the men who are now fifteen miles ahead of me. I am compelled to remain to attend to the property of the ten men who have died of cholera in this accursed place; it goes to New Orleans by boat in the morning. Why Col. Webb, who had been in this country before, selected this route instead of a more northerly one, I cannot understand, but it is now too late to change, and we must go forward with courage. April 29th. Canales Run. We are all on our way, having come to Ceralvo, [Cerralvo ]* beauti- ful for its old mission, and curious in its irrigating canals, bridges and old church, still it has the apathetic lassitude of everything Mexican. We rode on to Robber’s Rancho, over undulating 1’The route from the Rio Grande to the Rio Florida is described in Wislizenus’s ‘Tour to Northern Mexico,” Washington, 1848 (Senate misc. doc. 26, Ist session, 30th Congress) and in Bartlett’s Personal Narrative of Explorations and Incidents in Texas, New Mexico, California, Sonora and Chihuahua (New York, 1854). Wislizenus was physician in Doniphan’s expedition, and Bartlett was United States Mexican Boundary Commissioner. The Mexican Atlas of Garcia y Cubas (Mexico City, 1859) furnishes maps that are nearly contemporary and a list of haciendas. Mexico to the Mountains 85 wastes of hard, unprofitable soil. The palmettos are here by the thousand, and their fantastic shapes gave the appearance of horsemen of gigantic size, riding through grass almost as tall. Mays ist. Kobber’s Rancho, once ai fine hacienda, was burned by the Americans, in the last war, for the rascality of its owners; it is on a beautiful plain, but brush has grown up in the now neglected fields, and all is in ruins. Here Wwe came near losing Lieut. Browning from cholera, but he was saved by Dr. Trask’s indefat- igable exertions. May 12th. Near Monterey. We have been here four days having horses and mules shod, and I will take my pencil notes and write up my journal to date. We were at Robber’s Rancho a week, waiting for Bachman, Elmslie and Carrol, who had been left with Doubleday. As soon as they rejoined us we moved on to Papogias [ Popagallos] then to Ramos where we met some French traders with a long train of mules and their “cargoes.” - Ramos was followed by Marin and Aquafrio; all present a dilapidated appearance, very differ- ent from what was seen when the country was under the fine system of irrigation, and the remains of past opulence everywhere sadden the traveller. We reached Walnut Springs, five miles from Monterey, on the 8th of May, and are taking 86 Audubon’s Western Journal needed rest in the shade of the Spanish walnuts, and enjoying the delightful water, which bursts out in a fountain of six to eight feet wide, and about a foot deep, clear but not cool, yet pleasant to drink. Monterey is at the base of a range of mountains, which surround it on all sides except to the north. Its entrance over bridges, many of them very picturesque, shows abundance of water, which irrigates the beautiful valley for miles beyond Molino. Where'did Tl hope to be at this dater’ Yet here we are scarcely started; one month lost in sickness and sorrow, and one in the re-organization of our company. We are full two months behind our reckoning, and ona route of which I)/never approved, but which, when I took command, we were already compelled to pursue. We are hav- ing the horses and mules shod, for their feet are so tender we can not continue without. We travel, usually twenty or twenty-five miles a day, as the chance for water and forage for our horses occurs. The uncertainty of provisions is such that we have to carry corn for one or two feeds ahead, which adds considerably to the weight of our packs, and gives us a good deal of trouble. As I sit here, 1 hear the notes: of many ney; birds, as well as those well known, and the sky overhead is bluer than any Italy ever presented to me. Monterey, where I have been several times, Mexico to the Mountains 87 is an improvement on the other Mexican towns we visited, but full of foreigners of all nations come to prey on the ignorance of the poor inhab- itants. All now seems well regulated, but I dread shortness of provisions and we have to be very careful. JI have not heard from home since the date of February r9th and now must wait, I fear, wntil) we reach,if we ever do reach, the Pacitic coast. The company are all tired, the work is new and it takes time to become accustomed to the broken night’s rest. At midnight I take the rounds of our camp in moonlight, starlight or darkness, to see that all is well, and that none relax in vigilance, so requisite to safety in this country of thieves. This gives me only six hours of sleep, for after we have had supper, it is eight o’clock, and we get up at four a. m., so that taking out the two hours nightly, reduces me to that amount, but “habit is second nature.” If you hear of any more men coming to California overland, tell them three shirts, six pairs of socks, one coat, one great coat, two pairs of trousers and two pairs of boots, should be all the personal luggage. No man should bring more than he can carry. I have had quite a scene with the Alcalde here. Our camp was infested with pigs, which came from every direction every morning and evening when we fed our horses and mules. Of course, 88 Audubon’s Western Journal we could not see them robbed, stones and hatchets were abundant, and some pistols went off, which the boys declared did so accidentally. We could not find the owners, so I went to [the] Alcalde to pay for them, taking an Italian boy as interpreter. The boy instead of saying what I told him, which was simply to ask the value and pay it, added on his own account, that if his Honor was not satisfied with what we gave, we would come in and take the town. Naturally the Alcalde resented this, and I found my little vagabond had been telling his own story, not mine. Upon matters being explained by a more trustworthy source, the Alcalde was perfectly content, and bowed me out with much courtesy. The adroitness of the Mexicans in thieving equals that ‘of \ the) rascals at’ Naples.) in7inyo instances pistols have been taken from the holsters whilst the owners held the bridles of their horses. All this has tended to excite revenge, and without good discipline outbreaks of temper might have occurred, which would undoubtedly have brought us into trouble, as happened with several other companies on the road to Mazatlan. Saltillo, May 20th. Here we are, thank God, fairly on our way, and at present in good health and spirits. We travel about twenty-five miles a day, but have great difficulty in keeping our horses and mules in good order, as there is no grass Mexico to the Mountains 89 for grazing purposes, and corn varying in quality, but always high in price, from one dollar to fifty cents per bushel. When we left Monterey we followed the road to Rinconada, which is a beautifully located rancho, well watered and with a long avenue of pollard poplars or cotton-woods; the boles not more than ten or fifteen feet high, so that the flawy gusts that are like little hurricanes for a few seconds, and which come from the mountains which surround the place in every direction, cannot blow them down. Here we saw the first magua plants, from the juice of which pulke [pulque] is made, and afterwards muscale [mescal] distilled. Muscale in taste is more like creosote and water, slightly sweetened, than anything I can compare it to, and I suppose it is about as wholesome. The peons who do the work of the hacienda are completely Indian in character, appearance and habits, sometimes marvelous in their strength and activity, and sometimes surprising us with their unsurpassed laziness. ‘The women, patient things, like all squaws, carry wood, water, and do all the household labor. From this beautiful little amphitheatre among the hills we wound along parched arroyos and valleys, and I could not but be struck with the wise provision of nature for the protection of its crea- tions. Almost all the trees have tap roots, or if 90 Audubon’s Western Journal fibrous, they run so deep in search of moisture, fhat they are often longer than the’ tree 1s high: In the arroyos where the earth was often washed from the roots, I had a good opportunity of con- firming my conclusions. We proceeded up a deep ravine, until we began the ascent of the famed pass of Rinconada, intended to be defended by Santa Anna, but abandoned when our troops approached. How any force of artillery could have deserted such a position I can not conceive, for the unfinished fort commands the road for two miles at least. The view from the Fort was most superb, but we were tired of mountains, and longed for shade and woods. Crossing this pass we had our first indica- tion of increasing altitude, and above us on the rocks were pines (and cedars. '. Phey had the showers we longed for and saw passing, while almost smothered in dust, our hair and whiskers white with it, and we looked like a troop of grey veterans. We approached Saltillo over a broad plain, dotted with ranchos for some miles before we reached the town, which we entered through lanes of adobe walls, and finally came to the principal street, and commenced the ascent of the hill on which the town proper stands. It is all Mexican in its character, one story houses, flat roofed and having a fortified look, as if no one trusted his ———— 0 Mexico to the Mountains gI neighbor. The public square is a fine one, and the cathedral front the most beautiful I have seen on this side of the Atlantic. The workmen who did the carving came from Spain, and the stone from the Rocky Mountains, so goes the story. Saltillo has many good points, it is clean, well regulated, and [has] better buildings than any I have seen except at, Monterey, yet we pushed on, and have made our camp at Buena Vista, six miles further on. High mountains bound our view on every side. Buena Vista had its battle, and few of us but have some friend or acquaintance sleep- ing there. Parras, May 28th. I shall never forget the Buena Vista Camp, the night of the 23d and 2th, it was the night previous to our departure for this place; the guard was slow in coming out, Montrose Graham was guard over my tent that watch, and as Simson called his guard to order, and faced me, where I had risen up to see who were changing, George Weed let his rifle fall. The cock was down on the nipple, contrary to a positive order; in falling, the head of the hammer struck the ground first, and, as if the trigger had been pulled, it went off. An exclamation came from either side, one “Mr. Audubon’s killed,” the other from me: ‘“Who’s hurt?”