 Introduction of Audubon's Western Journal, 1849 to 1850, being the manuscript record of a trip from New York to Texas and an overland journey from Mexico and Arizona to the gold fields of California. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recording by David Wales. Audubon's Western Journal, 1849 to 1850, being the manuscript record of a trip from New York to Texas and an overland journey through Mexico and Arizona to the gold fields of California by John Woodhouse Audubon. Introduction. Ordinarily, events are the result of antecedent causes, but now and then and apparently fortuitous incident upsets all calculations and changes the course of history in a day. Of such a character was the discovery of gold in California. It would be difficult to overstate its importance. It led directly to a similar discovery in Australia and the combined output of the two fields replenished the world's stock of precious metals, shaped monetary systems, stimulated prices and powerfully affected the economic and industrial development of the last half century. Politically, for the United States, the discovery was the turning point in the struggle between the sections. Texas had been annexed and the southwest rung from Mexico largely for the purpose of equalizing slave and free territory by providing the south with an outlet for western immigration comparable in extent with that possessed by the north. The instantaneous settlement of California under circumstances unfavorable to slavery produced a free state and gave the north a majority in the Senate. The attempt to recover the lost ground brought on the Kansas struggle and precipitated the war that destroyed the only real cause of antagonism between the sections. Socially the results of the discovery were not less important. Immediately a new state was added to the union. Ultimately the necessity of joining the new state to the older ones opened the west to settlement, built the transcontinental railways, reclaimed the desert and peopled the continent. Fifty years ago Congress was petitioned to import 30 camels and 20 dromedaries and their use as a means of crossing the western deserts was seriously discussed in books and newspapers. Today there is no part of this vast territory that is not within easy reach of the railroad. Of the remarkable things accomplished in the United States perhaps the most remarkable is the rapid movement of population from seaboard to seaboard and yet this movement has been strangely neglected by historians. They follow minutely the course of Coronado and Radisson but no little of J.S. Smith and scarcely take the trouble to trace the roots of even so famous an explorer as John C. Fremont. They devote much space to the difficulties of settling Jamestown and Plymouth and very little to the hardships of the overland journey. They carefully trace the campaigns of the war of 1812 but barely mention the wars that have won the continent from the Indians. As throwing a sidelight upon one phase of this neglected movement Audubon's journal is presented to the public. But quite apart from this the book is interesting as a human document. Not only does it reflect the energy and strength of character of the author but the glimpse it gives of the constancy of the greater part of his companions and of man's humanity to man under the most trying circumstances strengthens faith in the essential soundness of human nature. The Californian discovery was made in January of 1848. Wildly exaggerated rumors of what had been found reached the eastern states by the middle of the following September. Official reports were received in Washington in time for mention in the president's annual message of December 5. The rush to California had already begun. As the continent could not be crossed in the winter the earliest to start went by water. Large numbers embarked upon the long and dreary voyage around the horn or rushed to Panama and Nicaragua to take ship from the Pacific seaports. As the spring opened crowds collected at Independence Missouri ready to begin the overland journey in May which was as early as it was safe to start. There were two overland routes from this point. The northern one followed the Oregon Trail to Fort Hall and from there crossed by way of the Humboldt River and over the Sierra Nevadas to California. The southern route followed the Santa Fe Trail to Santa Fe where the immigrants divided apart taking the old Spanish trail to the north and apart General Carney's route along the Gila on the south. While some of the immigrants went as individuals by far the larger number went in companies. Stock was subscribed to meet expenses often by men who did not go in person and the companies were organized for mutual assistance and defense. The company which Mr. Audubon joined was financed by his friends the Kingslands and was to be led by Colonel Henry L. Webb. Colonel Webb a New Yorker by birth had joined the volunteers from Illinois at the outbreak of the Mexican War and later had been promoted to the command of a regiment. Having served in Mexico he knew something of the country partly for this reason but chiefly no doubt in order to get an earlier start the company was to take the Mexican route. The wisdom of the choice might have been vindicated but for the loss of life and the delay caused by the cholera. This scourge was not however confined to the southern routes. Carried up by the river boats to independence it attacked the immigrants before leaving on their journey and pursuing them to the mountains lined the roads across the plains with newly made graves. Leaving New York February 8, 1849 with about 80 men and a capital of $27,000 Mr. Audubon proceeded by water to Philadelphia and Baltimore, took the railroad to Cumberland and then crossed the Alleghenies by stage to Brownsville and Pittsburgh. Here the company took a riverboat for Cairo where they were joined by Colonel Webb. Changing boats they descended the Mississippi to New Orleans which they reached February 18, 10 days after leaving New York. After some time spent here in the purchase of supplies they took a boat for Brazos at the mouth of the Rio Grande. From Brazos they were carried up the Rio Grande to a point opposite Rio Grande city where they landed on the 10th of March. Here they were attacked by the cholera and 10 men succumbed to the dread disease. To add to their distress the company's money was stolen and only after great difficulty was a part of it recovered. Discouraged by disease and misfortune 20 of the men turned back. Then Colonel Webb deserted his company the men at the same time refusing to go on under his leadership. For a time it seemed that the journey would be abandoned but about half of the men asked Mr. Audubon to lead them and bound themselves to go on under his command. More than a month was required for reorganization and for the recovery of the sick so that it was not until April 28 that the start was really made. They were now as late as the immigrants who started by the northern routes and were further from their goal. Leaving the Rio Grande at Roma the company took the main road to Chihuahua passing through Monterey, Salquillo, Buenos Vista, Paras and Mapimi and reaching Paral June 18. Cholera still followed them and here claimed another victim. Mr. Audubon had been twice attacked but had been able to resist the disease. At Paral the company left the highway and struck across the mountains to Sonora. On the western slope towns were few and far between. Yereis was reached August 22 and Alter September 9. Leaving Alter they entered a desert inhabited only by Indians living on lizards and grasshoppers. At the Pima villages on the Gila they reached the line of General Carney's march which had become the southern immigrant route. The march through the Gila Valley to the Colorado proved the most trying part of the journey. With supplies for the men exhausted, without grass for the mules and with little water for either, the limit of endurance was almost reached. Crossing the Colorado the company turned northward through the desert to the mountain passes and then southward to San Diego. Once they followed the trail to Los Angeles. Here Mr. Audubon decided to send the greater part of the company to San Francisco by sea while he with ten of the men drove the mules through by land. Crossing the coast range the route now followed the Tulare Valley and the San Joaquin River to Stockton. At San Francisco the company was reunited and from here started for a tour of the southern mines. Finding that they were already crowded and that the first fruits had been gathered Mr. Audubon turned with his friend Layton to the northern mines. The two proceeded to Sacramento and then to Coloma and Georgetown where the journal suddenly stops. The trip was probably interrupted at this point and Mr. Audubon called back to San Francisco to make preparations for his return home. Throughout the whole of this long journey Mr. Audubon took notes of scenes and occurrences by the way. In his descriptions he exhibits the keen observation of the naturalist and the trained eye of the artist. The result is a remarkable picture of social conditions in Mexico of birds and trees of sky and mountains and the changing face of nature of the barrenness of the desert and the difficulties of the journey of the ruined missions of California of methods of mining and of the chaos of races and the babble of tongues in the gold fields. It was manifestly impossible to keep a daily journal and the entries were made from time to time as opportunity occurred. Considering the circumstances under which they were taken the notes are remarkable for their accuracy. It was Mr. Audubon's intention to rewrite and to publish them in ten parts. One part was printed privately and given to a few friends but distractions at home prevented the continuance of the work. The notes were taken in a series of little books from which they have been faithfully transcribed by his daughter. The only omissions are a few personal references which form no essential part of the narrative and which she has thought best not to print. A few corrections have been made in the orthography of common words which were misspelled as a result of the haste in which they were written. Where names of places and Spanish words were spelled phonetically the correct forms have been enclosed in brackets or given in notes at the places where they first occur. In all essential respects the notes are printed exactly as they were left by their author. Many of the names of places are names of haciendas and ranchos some of which could not be identified. Of those identified there is some variation in spelling upon the Mexican maps of the period. A few notes have been added, chiefly an explanation of personal references in the text. The great bulk of Mr. Audubon's sketches was lost. A few of those that were saved have been reproduced and a portrait of Mr. Audubon taken in 1853 has been added together with a map of his route. F. H. H. End of introduction. Biographical memoir of Audubon's western journal 1849-1850 by John Woodhouse Audubon. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 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 businessman with sawmills 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 outdoor sports and pleasures, while still a boy. He was rather averse to the needful studies which kept him from the woods and streams, but which his mother never permitted him to neglect. She was herself the teacher of her sons in their earlier years and a most thorough one, as later generations can testify, sending them to school only when she realized that they needed contact with boys of their own age. But the home education was never given up. Both she and Mr. Audubon were excellent musicians, great readers, and most desirous that their children should be prepared as fully as possible to enter the world as educated and even accomplished men. Drawing was an important matter always, and both sons, Victor and John, became well skilled in this art, but in different minds, the first in landscape, the second in delineating birds and quadrupeds, or as the scientists say today, mammals, the latter being his specialty, though the first intention was that he should be a portrait painter. The boys, while children, were usually together and were sent to school at the same time, though Victor was three years the elder, but at times they were separated. Victor was a quiet, studious boy, and a great favorite with the elder members of his mother's family, the Bakewells, while John, who was full of mischief, very restless, always most successful in getting his young cousins, as well as himself, into all sorts of scrapes, was naturally less in demand. When Mr. and Mrs. Audubon were wandering from place to place, Victor was frequently with relatives in Louisville, and at an early age became a clerk in the office of Mr. Nicholas Bertaud, who had married a sister of Mrs. Audubon. He was in this position when his father sailed for England in 1826, while John remained in Louisiana with his mother at Bayou-Sara, where she was then teaching. At this period of his life, John spent much time drawing from nature and playing the violin, of which he was passionately fond all his life. While his father was pushing the publication of The Birds of America in England and Scotland, he at one time supplemented the slender finances of the family in a small way by taking occasional trips on the Mississippi River steamboats as a clerk. It was a very uncongenial work to the restless youth, and from what can be learned was rather indifferently done. But he was a great favorite with all with whom he came in contact and usually found someone to help him over his mistakes, and indeed on occasion to do his work, while he, with his violin, was in great demand on the decks of the steamboats in those days scenes of much gaiety, some of which was of more than doubtful quality. After a comparatively short season of mingled work and play, Mrs. Audubon withdrew him from what Louisianaans called the river, and he returned to his work in painting and in collecting specimens which his father wanted for the various friends and scientists with whom he was now constantly in touch. The elder Audubon upon his return from Europe took the family after a few weeks in Louisiana, further north, and they were some time in the vicinity of Philadelphia and New York. In 1830 the two brothers were left in America while Mr. and Mrs. Audubon were in England and France, and again John tried his hand at clerkship with better success than in his earlier years, but not for long. On his return to America Mr. Audubon made plans for a summer in Labrador and in 1833 made this journey, John, with three other young men accompanying him. The days were not only long but arduous. John was not quite twenty-one, and his love of fun was as strong as in his boyhood, but he found none in being called at three in the morning to search for birds, being frequently drenched to the skin all day, and working with bird skins through the interminable twilight. 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 bulls and other amusements to be found on these desolate shores, and to extract pleasures which perhaps youth alone could have found among such surroundings. So passed the years taking boyhood and youth with them until 1834, when the Audubon family all went to England and Scotland, where both young men painted very steadily, making copies of many of the celebrated pictures within reach of which they now found themselves. At this time John confined himself almost wholly to copying portraits, principally those of Sir Thomas Lawrence, whose friendship was most valuable to him, of Van Dyke and Murillo, and when in Edinburgh, giving great attention to the beautiful work of Sir Henry Rayburn. Some of these early pictures are still in the possession of the family, though many were sold and many given away. He also painted some watercolours 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 taste, thoroughly enjoyed the novel scenes and experiences for which they were well fitted both physically and mentally. They were tall, handsome young men, full of health and strength, and the joyousness of youth. The careful preparation and the reading of books of travel and literature, and the fact that they were excellent French scholars, added greatly to the interest of the journey. But busier days than these were in store when the Ottomans returned to America and the collection of new species demanded the attention of the naturalist and the assistance of his sons. Victor attended to most of the business details, partly in England and partly in America, while my father and grandfather searched the woods and in 1836 went as far south as the Gulf of Mexico. It was at the beginning of this trip that passing through Charleston a visit was paid to the home of Dr. John Bachman, and the attachment began between my father and Maria Bachman, which resulted in their marriage in 1837. Shortly after, John and his young wife went to England, where his father had again gone to superintend the continued publication of The Plates in London, and here their first child Lucy was born. Six months later, John, with his wife and child, returned to America. The next two years were spent partly in New York, partly in the South, in the vain hope of finding health and strength for the delicate young mother, but all was unavailing, and she died, leaving two little daughters, one an infant. Later John Audubon married an English lady, Caroline Hall, and to them seven children were born, five of whom lived to maturity. At this time the country place on the Hudson River near New York City, which had been bought in 1840, was built upon. Today it is well-nigh lost in the rapidly advancing streets and avenues, but at this time it was almost primitive forest, and here for some years lived the naturalist and his wife with the two sons and their respective families. It is hard today to picture the surroundings of that time. No railroad cut off the waters of the lovely river, then the highway from the ocean to Albany, and alive with craft of many kinds. The other three sides were heavily wooded, and neighbors there were none, for it was not until some years later that other homes began slowly to appear here and there. Few, if any of the friends of the Audubons in those days are left on earth, and the houses where they once lived have, with few exceptions, either been torn down or so altered that their former owners would not recognize them. Many's land, with its large gardens and orchards, especially celebrated for peaches, its poultry yards and dairy, which added to the comfort of the home and of the many guests who always found a welcome there, had an interesting side in the elk, deer, moose, foxes, wolves, and other wildwood creatures which were kept for study and pleasure, and still another in the books, pictures, and curios within the ever hospitable house, but more than all was the charm of the tall gray-haired old man, who by talent, industry, and almost incredible perseverance, won it for those he loved. The early days at many's land 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 superintendents of the animal life about the home, the varied enjoyments and duties of the country place, gave my father ample occupation. He loved the Hudson and the Palisades, the woods and the 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 sane, for fish were plentiful and good in the Hudson then, and where Mr. John was, disturbance or insolence was unknown, his orders to each man were respected, his division of fish always satisfied. An interruption in this tranquil life came in 1843 when Audubon the Elder went to the Yellowstone country, and both sons were anxious about their father until his return. They felt that he was too old for such an arduous journey, but he was determined to go, and his safe return ended all alarm for his safety. Another break came in 1845 when my father went to Texas to find mammals to depict in the new work being published, and possibly birds not yet described. He took with him, as sole companion of his travels, James B. Clement, one of the men about the place in whom he had, and most justly, perfect confidence. He was in Texas many months, traveling 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 Hayes, well known then as Jack Hayes, 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 Hayes gave him valuable aid in choosing routes, selecting Indians as guides and hunters, and in avoiding camps and settlements where he would certainly have been robbed, and possibly murdered, had he offered to protect his possessions, for at that time all money had to be carried in coin. Upon this journey my father was very successful in securing specimens. When he returned he brought one of his hunters, a half-breed Indian named Henry Clay, a name which had probably been given to him in jest. This man was my father's shadow. He was very skillful in the care of the animals, a splendid boatman and fisherman, and very valuable about the place. But civilization was too wearisome for him. He left two or three times and came back, but about 1852 returned to Texas with Captain McCown. In 1846, the year following the Texan journey, John Audubon with his wife and children went to Europe in order that he might paint pictures still for the quadrupeds. From some of the specimens he could find only in the zoological collections of London, Paris and Berlin, and he was absent on this work more than a year and a half. It was a period of most arduous work. His letters home were very short, though he was an easy and rapid writer. The reason for this brevity was, as he often explains, that his arm and hand were tired with the long days of steady painting. Particularly when the fur of the animals he was delineating was of unusual length, for this was before the days of dabs and smudges, and minuteness of detail was insisted on both by the elder Audubon and by the engravers. These were long months to him as most of them were passed in crowded cities where he missed the forests and rivers, his home and the free life to which he was accustomed. Many times in the letters written to those in many's land, he declares his intention of never leaving home again, an intention he was unable to carry out. In 1849 he joined a California company being urged there too by the Mezzers Kingsland, who were warm personal friends and who were then backing Colonel Henry L. Webb, who had been in Mexico and advocated that route for the company he was collecting. My father's idea was that such a journey offered splendid opportunities to secure specimens of birds and mammals. It was proposed that he should give the company his knowledge of a back woodsman's life, which was extensive, and he second in command to Colonel Webb a responsibility which he rather hesitated to accept as he wished the freedom of leaving the party anywhere he chose after reaching California. Finally, however, he signed papers with Mezzers Daniel C. and Ambrose Kingsland and Cornelius Sutton, Colonel Webb, signing too, to stay with the company for one year when they expected to reach their destination and beyond 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 companies for a year from the time of signing. If, when the contracts expired, there were any profits, these were to be divided in a certain ratio. My father's contract was signed January 31, 1849, and the fact that he was going induced many of his personal friends and acquaintances to join also. Almost all the men employed at Minnysland went with Mr. John. To the daughter of one of these, Mrs. Alice Walsh Tone, I am much indebted for help in names and dates. The journey across the continent in 1849 with no regular means of communication with home and friends through a country virtually unknown and when Indians were still numerous without cities to enable travelers to get fresh supplies of food and clothing, and with no very definite knowledge of the road, was a serious matter under the best of conditions and on the best route. What it was with men, who with few exceptions knew nothing of the life before them, who were impoverished by robbery, discouraged by death and disease, and deserted by their leader upon a route of which my father never approved, may be best learned from his journal. The journey was a terrible disappointment to him, as he says, my arsenic is broadcast on the barren clay soil of Mexico, the paper in which to preserve plants was used for gun-wadding, and though I clung to them to the last, my paints and canvases were left on the Gila Desert of awful memories. In July 1850 he sailed for home, which he reached in safety after the delay of a week at the Isthmus of Panama. Most unfortunately all his paintings, which were of course sketches to be worked up from notes, and most of the watercolors 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 Simpson took charge of them for a time. He entrusted them at my father's request to Mr. John Stevens, and with that noble man and true friend they went down in the wreck of the steamer, Central America. It would be interesting to follow the careers of those who made the California journey with my father, but the lapses of fifty six years makes this almost impossible, and very few traces of the members of the party can be found, nor indeed can any full list of those who left New Orleans with him be made. James B. Clement remained in Stockton as did Nicholas Walsh and John H. Stone. 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 Simpson died not long since. He lived for some time in San Francisco, being a partner in a legal firm, afterwards removing to Alameda. He married rather late in life and left a widow and one son. Langdon Havens returned to his home at Fort Washington, and many others also came back to the east. The greater part of the company, I believe, remained upon the Pacific slope, but I have been unable to locate them or their descendants, except in the few instances I have mentioned. Though the company proved an utter failure financially, yet nearly every man eventually reimbursed the measures Kingsland for their outlay, and in five instances the friends of those who died did for them that which living they would have doubtless done for themselves. At the time of the California journey my father was thirty-six, tall, strong and alert, though always slender, keen a vision and hearing, quick in movement and temperament, and with most tender and skillful hands as those have testified whom he nursed in the dreadful cholera days. He had inherited from his father the gift of making and keeping friends, among all classes, and of giving them confidence in him, the result of his quick and deep sympathy, his unselfishness and his absolute truthfulness. He was never indolent, whatever work had to be done, his was the hardest part, he never shirked, never grumbled. As evidence of this trait of his character, I quote from one of his companions, Lieutenant Browning, whose son has kindly given me some extracts from his letters. Mr. Audubon is always doing somebody else's work as well as his own. Mr. Audubon never thinks of himself, I never knew such a big-hearted man. I will touch on only one other characteristic. He was subject to periods of the deepest depressions, a trait also inherited from his father, which sometimes weighed his spirits down for days, and which it seemed impossible for him to dispel. Often on this California journey, the effort to appear bright and cheerful when he was in one of these moods physically exhausted him, and in some of his letters he speaks of the relief it was when night came, and he was alone and had no need to look or be other than he felt. He never outlived these attacks as the naturalists did, perhaps because his life was so much shorter. My father's homecoming showed him many sad changes, for his father was now not only an old but a broken man, and the spirit of the home was no longer joyous. Father, mother, and sons had always been most united, unusually so it seems, as many incidents and events are recalled. Possibly this deep affection was the result of the struggles of early days, which throwing them so much on each other for companionship developed a sympathy with one another, which lives full of separate interests would not have fostered. Possibly the great similarity of work and tastes drew them closer to each other than when such conditions do not exist, but whatever the reason it is certain that the ties which held them together were never loosened but by death, and so when in January 1851 he who had been the light of the home passed away, the break was most keenly and deeply felt. In 1853 two new houses near the original one, now grown too small for the many children, were completed, and these, Victor and John Audubon, occupied with their families, the mother living with one son or the other as the spirit moved her. The continued publication of the quadrupeds and the octavo edition of the birds occupied both my uncle and father. The latter reduced all the large plates of the birds to the desired size by means of the camera lucita, his delicate and exact work fitting him for the exquisitely minute details required. Much of each winter was spent in the southern state 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 17th of August 1860 came the parting which so long had been dreaded. During this long period of my uncle's illness all the care of both families devolved on my father. Never a businessman sat in by his brother's condition and utterly unable to manage at the same time a fairly large estate, the publication of two illustrated works, every plate of which he felt he must personally examine, the securing of subscribers, and the financial condition of everything. After my uncle's death matters became still more difficult to handle owing to the unsettled condition of the southern states where most of the subscribers to Audubon's books resided and when the open rupture came between north and south the condition of affairs can hardly be imagined except by those who lived through similar bitter and painful experiences. Now, in body and spirit overburdened with anxieties, saddened by the condition of his country, it is no matter of surprise that my father could not throw off a heavy cold which attacked him early in 1862. On the evening of Tuesday, February 18, he was playing on his violin some of the scotch airs of which he was so fond when suddenly putting down the instrument he said he had so much fever he would retire. Before morning delirium set in and for two days and nights he wandered in spirit over the many lands where once in health and strength the happy boy, the joyous youth, the earnest man had traveled in body. Especially was the Californian trip present in his beavered mind, and incidents and scenes were once more vividly before him until on the twenty-first he fell asleep, never to awaken here, and as the stormy night closed in almost at the same hour as that on which his father died, he too took the last journey and entered into that unknown land and was forever free from storm and stress. His forty-nine years of life had been very full ones. He had touched the extremes of joy and sorrow. He had known failure and success. Like his father he had never done anything indifferently. His enthusiasm carried him over many difficulties. His sympathy and generosity endeared him to everyone 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 End of Autobiographical Memoir Chapter 1 of Audubon's Western Journal, 1849-1850 by John Woodhouse Audubon. This liberal box recording is in the public domain. Chapter 1, 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 skepticism, again with less, until, in some degree, faith in the tales began to be awakened in my mind, and at last I thought it might possibly come to pass that I should go to California. But still it was very vague, and I scarcely dwelt on the idea of so long a trip, except as a dream. However, I mentioned it to two or three of my friends, asking what they thought, and answers came, as is always the case on occasions when advice is asked, so various that I was bewildered, and finally I felt I must come to those in my own home to aid me in my decision. But even here I was thrown back upon my own judgment, my noble father could give me no advice now, but in 1845 when I was in Texas he had written to me, push on to California, you will find new animals and birds at every change in the formation of the country, and the birds from Central America will delight you. After long talks over the pros and cons, I decided to go for a long eighteen months from my beloved home, and decided to join Colonel H. L. Webb's California Company, which was being organized. I was appointed second in command owing to my knowledge of Back Woodsman's life and the experience of my Texas trip, and after eight weeks of weariness and anxiety I found I was to take charge of eighty men, and with twenty-seven thousand dollars belonging to the company was to meet Colonel Webb at Cairo. I had talked with fathers and with young men who wished to learn all about a Back Woodsman'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. February 8, 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 hem clasps that told of sound hearts and said, My brothers with you, treat him right, and if he is my brother he'll die for you or with you. The final words of clergymen, as they gave us their parting advice and blessing, were drowned by the tolling of the last bell. It's now 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 to 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 northwest wind. Cold and frosty from the snow-covered palisades, turning often to look up our north river to see if I could get one glimpse of that home so long to be unseen. The tide was low, so we had to take the outside, and I went to the bow to look over Sandy Hook towards the broad Atlantic, and to try to realize that the Pacific had to be seen before I could again return to my own beautiful coast. It was a most curious sight as I entered the cabin of the boat to see the different feelings exhibited. Some were in deep thought, some in sorrowful anxiety, some gay, and again others with evidently forced merriment. But in the main, cheerfulness was certainly on every side, and when I had to announce that we had been promised what was not on board, a good supper, not a murmur was heard, and merriment was created by the imitations of the orders of the New York eating-houses, such as roast beef, rare, plum pudding with both kinds of sauce, etc. Our cabins were not the most comfortable, nor was the floor of the dining saloon too soft for some of our city men, but we slept soundly from one until four, took breakfast at five, and at eight were driving in the quiet, dignified streets of Philadelphia towards the Sheichel. Very cold weather had followed us, and the heavy northwestern of the day previous retarded our progress across the Chesapeake from Frenchtown. At Baltimore we took our luggage at once to the railroad station and went to the United States and Union hotels, where for a dollar and a quarter each we had supper, bed, and breakfast, and went off, all in better spirits, for Cumberland, where after a miserable dinner and supper combined we packed into fourteen stages, having paid nearly an average of two dollars each for extra luggage, fifty pounds being the regular allowance for each man. February 10th. Fortunately we had a full moon and as the mountains were all ice and snow it was as light as day. Overloaded and with top heavy coaches as our hind wheels would keep slipping first on one side and then on the other to see what the front ones were doing, it was most extraordinary we did not capsize, all of us, but no accident occurred and at eight next morning we had descended Laurel Hill on a run and were slowly winding the lanes of a more civilized country. As it was Sunday, many cheerful groups, gaily dressed, ornamented the stoops and sunny sides of the houses and barns of the contented farmers of western Pennsylvania as we passed on to Brownsville, where we arrived at noon, glad enough to be safely landed on the banks of the Monongahela. We reached Pittsburgh at nine the same evening, went to the Monongahela house and had a comfortable supper, but as most of our luggage was on the steamer for Cincinnati I went on board and took my birth. Morning came and after a few kind words from my relations at Pittsburgh we left and had one of the hundreds of monotonous voyages down the Ohio that are yearly performed by the steamers. At Cincinnati I was met by two additional volunteers engaged by Colonel Webb and was much pleased by their appearance, though I would have preferred seeing back woodsmen and men who knew more of the life we were going to lead, but we must hope on and trust to Providence. Passages and fares at hotels, etc., included, were now calculated to see how we had estimated the cost of each person to Cairo, and we found that for each one it was one dollar and forty-five cents over the twenty-five dollars allowed. And I took passages to the latter place direct, remaining only four hours at Louisville where I had the good fortune to find my uncle W.G. Bakewell waiting for me and dined with him while our boat was putting out some freight at Albany below the falls. When I joined my party I was told that some of the men had stolen a valuable pointer dog and that a telegraphic notice had been sent after them, but on inquiring I found it had been purchased, no doubt, from a thief, so we sent it back from Cairo. Large flocks of geese and ducks were seen by us as we made the mouth of the Ohio and the numbers increased about Cairo. The ice in the Mississippi was running so thick that the J.Q. Adams returned after a fruitless effort to ascend the river. All Cairo was under water. The wharfboat we were on, an old steamer, could only accommodate thirty-five of our party, so that the other thirty had to be sent to another boat of the same class. The weather was extremely cold, with squalls of snow from the north, with a keen wind. There was no plank from our boat to the levee of Cairo, the only part of the city out of water. Will it be wondered at that a slight depression of spirits should for an instant assail me? But when a man has said he will do a thing, it must be done, if life permits, and in an hour we found ourselves by a red hot stove the men provided with good births 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 John Carney Rogers 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-quite tablecloth, is it not wonderful what hunger will bring us to? Here we found Colonel Webb with his wife and son. I was much pleased with the dignified and ladylike appearance of Mrs. Webb. Once she had been very beautiful, now she was greatly worn, and had a melancholy expression, under the circumstances more appropriate than any other, for her husband and only son were about to leave her for certainly eighteen months, and perhaps she was parting with them for the last time. We chatted together in rather a forced conversation until the General Scott for New Orleans came by, and then went on board paying eight dollars for each man and five dollars each for Colonel Webb's three horses, so much for Cairo I don't care ever to see it again. I found my uncle W. G. Bakewell on board making the trip to New Orleans, and my journey was as agreeable as it could be where all my associations were of a melancholy nature. I thought of past joys and friends, dead and scattered since the days when I knew this country so well. The river was very high, and the desolation of the swamps, the lonely decaying appearance of the clay bluffs, picturesque as they are, added to the eternal passing on of this mighty stream towards its doom, to be swallowed in earth's great emblem of eternity, the ocean, told only of the passing of all things. February 18. Four days from Cairo found us in New Orleans, and a few hours enabled me to find hotels for our party, and at six o'clock I was able to tell Colonel 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 19. Was spent in running all over New Orleans ordering horse and mule chews, bacon, flour, bags, tools, ammunition, and making arrangements to change our certificates of deposit for such funds as would to pass in Mexico. I called with Colonel Webb on General and Mrs. Gaines, and was most kindly received by both, and afterwards asked to call again, but had no time as every minute was occupied with my business. Two of our men had to be returned from this place of bars, billiards, and thirsty souls, and one of our otherwise best men was dismissed because he met some of his old friends, who would insist not only on a jovial dinner, but masked balls, and all the other concomitants, and after four days of this, a unanimous vote of the company expelled him. Sunday is selected at New Orleans for the departure of vessels to all parts of the world, and at ten o'clock on the morning of March the fourth, we left in the steamer glow 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 boughs at almost every wave, and I felt that if a real gale came up from the southeast, our trip to California would soon end. The day continued as it had begun. I went to my berth, and could not have been persuaded that it was not blowing hard if I had not been able to see the water from my porthole. The night came on with a full moon and the trade wind of the gulf just fanned a ripple on the old swell to send millions of sparkling lights in petty imitation of those spangling the heavens. Three such nights and four days of hot sun, and we were running over the bar at Brazos in only seven or eight feet of water. Not a landmark more than ten feet high was in sight, but we could see miles and miles of breakers, combing and dashing on the glaring beach, broken here and there, by dark weather-stained wrecks of unfortunate vessels that had found their doom on this desolate shore. Brazos, like Houston in 1837, is nothing if you take away what belongs to government, a long flat a mile wide extending for a good distance towards the Rio Grande, is kept out of reach of the sea by a range of low sand hills if drifts of eight to ten or fifteen feet deserve the name. So like those on all our low shores from Long Island to Florida, that every traveller knows what the island of Brazos is. The inner bay, however, looking towards Point Isabel, is beautiful, and, but for the extreme heat, would have given me a splendid opportunity for one of my greatest pleasures, sailing. We found a few cases of cholera had occurred here, and Major Chapman, with the kindness so generally shown by our officers to their countrymen, sent off our party at once in the government steamer, Mentoria. At New Orleans, I could not insure our money over the bar of the Rio Grande without an immense premium, so I, with Biddlebogs and James Clement having landed the horses brought with us, went overland from Brazos to Brownsville opposite Matamoros, thirty-two miles, long ones. We took all our money with us and started in buoyant spirit. At ten-thirty, March eighth, I found myself riding along the beach of this barren island. For six or eight miles, we went merrily on, watching the little sandpipers and turnstones, and enjoying the invigorating sea breeze as the sun was intensely hot. And when, from time to time, we passed through narrow lanes of chaparral where the breeze was shut out and the dust followed our horses, we were exceedingly oppressed. We had all seen Texas before and, like sailors, once familiarized with the sea whom an hour restores to old habits and thoughts, so with the man of the prairies, and we all felt at home at once. The country is flat, showing here and there in the distance some of those bold prominences of clay represented so beautifully by the Prince de Neuide and his wonderful illustrations of the West. These near the Rio Grande are, of course, only miniatures of the Chateau Blanc of the northern Mississippi. After our long ride of thirty-two miles with only a hard-boiled egg each for our midday meal, at three o'clock we reached Brownsville where the rolling of bowling alleys and the canoning 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 Bryce, who took charge of it and put it in the strongbox at Fort Brown. From this place we had, next morning, a fine view of Matamoros and the American-like appearance rather startled me from my old belief of the low standard of all things Mexican, for it was the only town, like a town, I had seen. But I resumed my old opinion when I was told that all the good houses had been built by Mr. McGown, who had resided there for years, and so far I have not seen anything in the shape of architecture worthy the name except the old missions about San Antonio de Bexar. Brownsville, March 8. Almost a calm this clear morning, but occasionally a soft breeze, so gentle as just to wave the white cover of the table at which I sat. From time to time a distant hammer sluggishly drove a nail and the proud cock was heard to boast his self-importance in a shrill crow, the same I have heard from Berlin to this lonely place. The mockingbirds sang just as they did in my happiest days in beautiful Louisiana. My heart went back to my home and a foreboding of evil seemed to come over me. Brownsville is one of those little places like thousands of others in our southern states. Little work and large profits give an undue share of leisure without education or refinement, consequently drinking houses and billiards with the etc. are abundant. The river here is narrow and rapid and crossed by two ferry boats swung on hausers in the old fashioned way, stretching from bank to bank of the great Rio Grande del Norte. They do a thriving business as Matamoros contains many Mexicans who do both a wholesale and retail running business, that is smuggling. March 10th Colonel Webb and the company came up last evening on the Mentoria, Captain Duffield. He stayed overnight and after purchasing a few barrels of rice at about twice its cost at New Orleans and one or two little additions to our already large stock of necessaries, we set sail in the Corvette, Captain O'Daniel. Some time was lost in our progress that night as we stuck on the bar just above the town. However, we soon went on and I found this river quite different from the usual run of its channel as from every rise, which is not often at this season, the channel is left full of mud and the deepest water for a week or so outside the regular channel. I do not believe any part of this country can be good for a thing as the rain is so uncertain in its favors. The miserable Mexicans who live far apart at distances of 10 or even 20 miles from each other do not plant their patches of corn with any certainty that it will mature. The rain failing to come to fill the ears more frequently than it comes. The ranchos are forlorn jakals, a sort of openwork shed covered with skins and rushes and plastered with mud, here so full of lime and marl that it makes a hard and lasting mortar, precisely alike, varying only in picturesqueness of tree or shrub, or rather shrub alone, for there are no fine trees here, though the mesquite and willow sometimes arrive at the height of 20 or 25 feet and back from the river the hackberry attains a tolerable size. A tall reed of rank growth in thickets and in other places a dwarf willow in patches like the young cottonwoods along the banks of the Mississippi are the chief growth. The water is warm and so full of lime as to create rather than allay thirst. What but necessity could ever have induced settlers to remain here, I cannot 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 flagstaff, 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 Lamott's dent. Colonel 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 barge 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 to the river. It was two o'clock, the sun pouring down on us, the mercury ninety-eight degrees in the shade. Nevertheless, with all our winter blood in us, we had to unload our heavy luggage. Casks of government tents and camp equipage, which we were obliged to roll sixty or seventy yards through mud and sand, was hard work. This began to tell the tale. The good men went at it with a will. The dandies looked at their hands, touched a bacon-barrow, rubbed their palms together, looked again, and put on gloves. But it would not do, and out of our ninety-eight men, only eighty were at their work with good will and cheerful hearts. But all was soon done, and I gave a sort of melancholy glance at the Corvette, as she started off. The captain had been very kind to us, and we gave him three cheers, and turned to set up our tents for the first time. We adhered closely to military style, and our straight line of tents did not vary. Dry sand, or wet mud, had no effect on our position. In the cool of the evening, after I had done all I could for the comfort of those around me, I stretched myself out with hat, coat, and boots off to look at the busy scene around me. Kaley 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 mockingbirds and thrushes. I opened out the nucleus of my collections, a little package of bird-skins. A new thrush, a beautiful green jay, a new cardinal, were side by side, with two new woodpeckers and a little dove, all new to our fauna, and I carefully spread them out to dry, and admired them. The sun went down, our supper was ready, and never did a company enjoy their meals more than we did for the first two days we were ashore, when exercise and good health gave a relish to everything. Our guard was set and detailed for the night, and I turned in on my blankets with a short prayer for health and continuance of blessings on my family. Chapter 2 of Audubon's Western Journal, 1849-1850 by John Woodhouse Audubon. Chapter 2 Disaster in the Valley of the Rio Grande. March 13, 1849. Daylight came in, beautiful and calm, but we were enveloped in a dense fog so heavy that though the clear sky could be seen overhead, 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. Colonel Webb went over to Camargo to report himself and the company to the Alcalda, and returned at night with a Mr. Nimman's, 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 Jay 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 we 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, ignorance was bliss. At five I was up again. Mustard plasters, rubbing and a tablespoon full of brandy, every half hour with camphor, etc., were faithfully 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 camps seemed to keep aloof from him, and all the tents on that side of the camp were deserted except Simpsons and Harrison's, and those I ordered off. When Hinckley, Liskum, and Walsh came back from Rio Grande City with his coffin, I had prepared him for burial, for his brother was too prostrated with grief to do anything. 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 graveyard 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, leveled the ditches around it, and burned the withered vows that had been put to shelter it. This done I went to rest, if I could, being on this night of March fifteenth more anxious than I had been for years. I had just dropped into a troubled sleep when I was called to look at Bowden, 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 Bowden, 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 sixteenth, 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 hurt you, Ham? 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, doubtless, but from my heart, God knows, and with tears in my eyes, turned away to go to attend to Lysquem and Whittlesey, both just taken. I gave proper directions, and at Dr. Trass's suggestion, went to Colonel Webb's tent to tell him we 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, Colonel 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 McKinney, 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 had once set to work, to pack, and to 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 Simpson, Howard Bakewell, W.H. Harrison, Robert Benson, Leffert Benson, John Stevens, James Clement, Nicholas Walsh, Talman, and Fohlen, with two Brady's, who were friends of Bowden, A.T. Shipman, W.H. Lysquem, and Justin Ealy. As Dr. Trask could be of no further use, we insisted on his going on board the boat, as Fohlen was with us and knows a great deal about medicine, 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 real grand 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 expecting 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 ninety-nine degrees in the shade. I looked at the group of good men who had reluctantly left me and had assembled in the 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 Liskum, worn out and heartbroken, 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, 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 Bowden'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 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!" Simpson and Harrison took him in hand, and I read and reread 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 in 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 I told the noble fellows, who, forgetting self, still struggled 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 to help them but little, for with what I had undergone the last fifty hours and the terrible death of my young cousin, Howard Bakewell, I was utterly exhausted. Simpson, 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 Liskum, who were brought over under the direction of Harrison and Simpson, and in a sort of a dream I heard their footsteps sprang from the bed, and Bakewell was laid upon it. I waited for the rest of the party with my saddle-bags containing the company's money. That was all a value that I thought of, and sometimes I wonder I thought of anything I was so weary. But Clement brought them and Liskum 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 barkeeper, telling him their value and promising to pay him well for his trouble and caring for them. To tell how that night was passed would be more than I can do. Nicholas Walsh and A.T. Shipman became worse. I sent it once for Dr. Campbell, and he passed the night with us. The heavy trade-win from the southeast side through the open windows of the long, twenty-bedded room we were in, the deep moans of young Liskum, 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 we're told it was gone, had been delivered to one of our men. This was untrue, and we sent it once to the landlord and demanded our money. He coldly answered, I never saw you gentlemen. When the money is 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 entrusted 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 mesquite stump, and stood to guard over him forty-eight hours, assistant from the garrison of Fort Ringgold, having been refused us by Major Lamont. March 18. Today Harrison died of cholera after about twelve hours' sickness, and I lost his assistants, which had been most valuable, and for a time that of Simpson, who was well-nigh crazy at the death of his friend, and who was, besides completely 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 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 Simpson 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 19, Mr. Upshore, 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 I saw it. 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. Hughes of New Orleans. It is his calculation of five hundred dollars in sovereigns and half eagles, which Layton and Hughes 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 countered it twice, took my receipt, and as we went to Camp Ringgold to leave it with the quartermaster, Lieutenant Caldwell, who was always most kind, Mr. Upsher 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, thinking 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 generously refused any compensation for what he had recovered, saying we had suffered enough. The Tom McKenney, which had taken our party to Roma, brought back eighteen or twenty of the men on the way back to New Orleans. At first I thought they had returned to be of some assistance, but judge of my disappointment when I learned the truth. The Bensons, Brady, Barkley, Tallman, Fallon, 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 goodbye, and some did not even come to 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 goodbye, 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 Simpson, Clement, John Stevens, Nick Walch, Mitchell, and Elmsley, with Shipman very ill. We were, however, encouraged by good reports of those at Roma. Langdon Havens was recovering, and out of fifty-two more or less ill only two had died, although twenty were yet too weak to move. Horde, Upshire, and Simpson 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 his steamer just arrived, and on the road met Lieutenant 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 Rancho, and went on to Major Lamott's tent for letters. He was engaged when I arrived, and too weary to sit down, I stretched myself on the rushes he had for the floor of his tent, and commenced a conversation with Captain McCown on the subject of our troubles. He did not know me, and began by, the Ottomans 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. On my return to Davis Rancho I saw a poor Dr. Carney 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. Rogers, 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 Mir 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 interminable chaperall of mesquite cactus of three species, an occasional alloy, magway, and a 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 cactus, which ought to be called gigentias, almost all the plants are small-leaved. Most 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 flat boat, 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 Colonel 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 cannot 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 accomplices through twenty-five miles of wilderness. 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 here, and I was surprised to see a carriage as we rode up. In a minute I saw Colonel Webb sitting in it with one foot on the back seat, and Dr. Crask bathing it. He had had a touch of diarrhea 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 ankle 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, Colonel 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 morning, 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 Coombs, who had just been taken ill. The night before Mr. Upshire 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 volunteers, a lesson I learned from Jack Hayes when I was in Texas, and Coombs was one of the first to come forward. He was so debilitated I 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. His friend, J.J. Bloomfield, had been like a brother to him, untiring in his devotion, and when, in a few hours, Coombs ceased to breathe, Bloomfield almost collapsed himself. 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 Coombs in its 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 passed and the sun was just setting in a sky without a cloud. All moisture seemed to have left the face of nature. The distant prairies, broken only here and there by a mesquite, 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, sad 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 our larriettes, and I read the funeral service. As I 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 23. Again came mourning with its fiery sun burning and drying everything. Breakfast was tasted but not eaten. A committee from the company came to know what should be done. Colonel Webb, with one of our doctors and four men, went off to Mir to get out of the sun, for with all 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 Simpson I left for Roma on my way back 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 McGowan, Dr. Campbell, Lieutenants Caldwell, Hazard and Hain, and Captain Diaz. 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' room, with Lieutenant 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. Long black hair with a soft wave in it gave wildness and his black mustache 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 complexion as Clay Davis was dark. Behind him stood Simpson with his van dyke 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 for adjudication. On the other side, in the light, sat another Mexican holding the stolen property which had been recovered, and behind him a table with glasses, bottles, and a demi-john. Lieutenant 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 Lieutenant Browning I left to return to Mir, but halfway between Davis Rancho and Roma met the company and wagons which they had hired. All were well, but so weary and debilitated they had decided to go home. I continued on my way to see Colonel 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 Lieutenant Browning. Regained the company, called them in together, read their agreement to them, and said all I could to remind them of the obligations they were under to go on and fulfill their contract, but almost universal refusal met my appeal. Only twenty-one agreed to go on, but a falling off from ninety-eight. Out of those who agreed to go on, two were cooked, 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 as such men? I left them all to reconsider their 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. I 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 Colonel Webb's California Company. Fortune, always fickle, now changed. No steamer came to take us back. For two days we were quite determined to take the voyage homewards, 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 McGowan 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. Lieutenant 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 believe the cholera was the chief cause of discouragement, and the fact that Colonel Webb had left the men in their distress the source of the anger against him. I decided that I could go on and determine 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 seemed to have returned, and leaving my seat I went over to Armstrong's hotel. On the counter of the bar room lay Lieutenant 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 a chorus. 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 difficulties? 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 Colonel Webb. I told them it was not possible for them to go on with Colonel 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 Lieutenant Browning said, let's go on with Mr. Audubon. Three cheers gave their answer, but I told the men not to decide then in a moment of excitement to wait until morning and to 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 miles back from the Rio Grande out of the way of Cholera to feed up our week 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 preparations, wind up our business with Colonel 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 from here but found we had not mules enough and stopped at Blank 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 calculations 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, threw 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 mere. Luckily our wagons broke down again so we concluded to leave them and lost another week disposing of them and selling goods we were unable to take. At mere I saw Colonel Webb off with his proportion of money and provisions. Mere 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 south west, hills, parched and arid, give an unpleasing foreground to the superb view of the mountains of Saravo, all the blue of Italy was again before me with the exception of the blues of the Mediterranean 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 Elmsley, 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. Bachman and Elmsley were true to me throughout all.