CHAPTER II

DISASTER IN THE VALLEY OF THE RIO GRANDE

_March 13th, 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 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[11] 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 "ignorance was bliss." At five I was up again, mustard plasters, rubbing and a tablespoonful 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 camp seemed to keep aloof from him, and all the tents on that side of the camp were deserted except Simson's and Harrison's, and those I ordered off. When Hinckley, Liscomb 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 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, being on this night of March 15th more anxious than I 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 16th, 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, 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 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 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, Tallman 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, 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 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 99 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 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 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 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. 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. I 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 Liscomb 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.

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 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 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 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 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 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 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. Hewes of New Orleans, it is his calculation of five hundred dollars in sovereigns 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 Quartermaster, 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 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 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 I 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 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 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 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.

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 interminable chaparral of musquit, cactus (of three species), an occasional aloe, maguay[12] 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 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 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 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 diarrhœa 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 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 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 volunteers (a lesson I learned from Jack Hayes[13] when I was in Texas), and Combs 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 Combs 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 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 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 our lariats 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 23d._ Again came morning 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. Col. Webb with one of our doctors and four men went off to Mier, 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 Simson I 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 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 complexion 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 Mexican 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 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 obligations 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 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 "Col. Webb's California Co."

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 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. 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 Col. Webb." I told them it was not possible for them to go on 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. 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 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 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 preparations, 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 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, 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 selling goods we were unable to take. At Mier I saw 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 unpleasing 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 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 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. Bachman and Elmslie were true to me throughout all.