Scene: A green sea tempest-tossed, the waves houses high. White clouds massed along the windward horizon, giving the appearance not only of ice-clad rocks and towers, but of a great mountainous snow-land. And above this a broad lift of deepest blue, and higher still – like the top scene on a stage – a curtain-cloud of driving hail. One ship visible, staggering along with but little sail on her.

It was near sunset when Captain Blunt came below to the cabin of the

Gloaming Star

. “It is a bitter night, Leonard,” he said, rubbing his hand and chafing his ears. “The wind is as cold as ever we felt it in Greenland.”

“Blowing right off the ice, isn’t it?”

“Yes, with a bit of west in it, and I do think somehow that the wind of the Antarctic is keener, rawer, and colder than any that ever blows across the pack at the other Pole.”

Soon after this Leonard himself went on deck. Here was his friend Douglas, muffled up in a monkey-jacket with a sou’-wester on his head, and great woollen gloves on his hands, tramping up and down the deck as if for a wager.

“How do you like it, Doug?”

“Ha!” said Douglas, “you’re laughing, are you? Well, your watch comes on at four in the morning. There won’t be much laughing then, lad. How delightful the warm bed will seem when – ”

“There, there, Douglas, pray don’t bring your imagination to bear on it. It will be bad enough without that.”

The two now walked up and down together, only stopping occasionally to gaze at the sky.

There was little pleasure in looking weatherward, however, only a clear sky there now, with the jagged waves for an uneven shifting horizon, but where the sun had gone down the view was inexpressibly lovely. The background beneath was saturnine red, shading into a yellow-green, and higher up into a dark blue, and yonder shone a solitary star, one glance at which never failed to carry our sailors’ thoughts homeward.

Now something over three years had elapsed since the

Gloaming Star

sailed away from the Clyde, since the wild Arran hills were last seen in the sunset’s rays, and the rocky coast of this romantic island had grown hazy and faint, and faded at last from view.

Years of wandering and adventure they had been, too – years during which many a gale had been weathered, here and there in many lands, and many a difficulty boldly faced and overcome.

As our two heroes, Leonard and Douglas, walk up and down the deck, and the wind blows loud and keen from off the Antarctic ice, I will try to recount a few of those adventures, though to tell them all would be impossible. I will but dip into their logs, and read you off the entries on a few of the leaves thereof.

Opening the Log at Random

I open the log at random, as it were, and first and foremost I find the wanderers – where? Why, among the Rocky Mountains. The

Gloaming Star

is safe and sound in New York harbour, under the charge of no less a personage than Rory O’Reilly himself, who is second mate of her.

To cross the vast stretch of country that lies between the Atlantic Ocean and this wild mountain range was in those days a daring deed in itself. As long as they were in the midst of comparative civilisation they were safe, but this once left behind, with only the rolling prairie in front of them, hills, glens, woods, and forests, and a network of streams, the danger was such that many a brave man would have shrunk therefrom.

There were friendly tribes of Indians, it is true, but there were others who hated the white man with an implacable hatred. And this hatred, it is only right to add, was returned with interest. It is terrible to think that the red man was looked upon in those days as if the brand of Cain were carved on his brow, so that whoever should meet him should kill him; that he was hunted down even as the wild beasts were hunted, and that the war declared against him was one of extermination, one to the bitter end.

On the other hand, the cruelties practised by the Indians on their white brethren of the outlying districts, when they succeeded in capturing a station or fort, were such as one cannot read of without a shudder of horror and a feeling of anger as well.

But our heroes and their party, including Captain Blunt, five friendly Indians, and a trapper – a Yankee of the real old school and a thorough backwoodsman – had made the long journey in safety. The mules that had carried their packs were even now quietly feeding in a rude enclosure, near the log hut which had been a home to the party for months.

But although these wanderers did not fear danger, they knew it existed, and no sooner had they arrived in the woodland glen close by a beautiful river, than they proceeded to make their encampment as like a fort as they could. Strong were their arms to work, and willing were their hearts. To Leonard and Douglas there was something quite delightful in this new free, wild life of independence; fishing by lonely streams, wandering through the still, quiet forests, or bearding the wild beasts in their favourite haunts. The very knowledge that hostile Indians might be encountered at any time only added a zest to their adventures.

But before they, entered into their sports with earnestness, they fortified the site they had chosen as a camp. The trees were cut down all round, and a complete rampart, with ditch and drawbridge, was erected.

When all was complete the sport began in earnest; but it was not sport for the simple sake of killing. No, for they slew and fished but to fill their larder, and lay up a wealth of skins, which would help to pay for this pleasant outing when they returned to the great city of New York. Thereupon bears and beavers became their especial prey, to say nothing of innumerable furry denizens of forest, hill, and river bank.

Life in the Rockies

They had arrived at the Rockies in early summer, and long before the hot season was at its hottest, long before the time came when at midday hardly would you have heard a sound in the woods, except the singing of the river that went rippling over its pebbly bed, or tumbling in miniature cataracts over rocks, and falling into deep dark pools beneath, where dwelt the largest trout, and near which, mayhap, the beaver had his haunt – long before midsummer, they were so perfectly at home that they felt no wish to leave the lovely glen. Both Leonard and Douglas were of those who dearly love —

” – The haunts of Nature;

Love the sunshine of the meadow,

Love the shadow of the forest,

Love the wind among the branches.

“And the rain-shower and the snowstorm,

And the rushing of great rivers,

Through their palisades of pine trees,

And the thunder in the mountains.”

They loved Nature, and Nature seemed to love them, for even the wild birds appeared to sing to them, —

“In the moorlands and the fenlands,

In the melancholy marshes, – ”

While the wild flowers told their tales in a language that only poets understand, whispered to them of their loves and sorrows, —

“In green and silent valleys,

By pleasant water-courses.”

Among the deep, dark forest glens, in the canons, and in caves among the bush that clad the mountain sides, lived in those days bears – chiefly the grizzly and cinnamon bear – far more fierce than any that are now found in the same quarter. It has been said, and with a good deal of truth, that bears seldom attack a man. There are exceptions to all rules, as the following adventure will prove. It was a lovely day in August. Our wanderers had gone out in two parties, Captain Blunt, Douglas, and a few Indians being together, and Leonard with the Yankee trapper and one Indian by themselves. The sport for a time was

nil

. It was the hottest hour of the day, and every creature was sheltering from the fierce sunlight. Hardly knowing or caring what he did or where he went, Leonard went straggling up a mountain side, studying the flowers and the strange pieces of ore that lay here and there in all directions.

He was in the act of picking up one of these last when a coughing noise in the bush close by made him start and stand at once to arms. There, not twenty yards from him, and rapidly advancing, was a huge grizzly. Hardly had he time to bring his gun to the shoulder ere the monster prepared to spring. By Heaven’s own mercy Leonard fired in time. The roar changed to a choking one, and the bear spat blood; he turned to fly, Leonard following fast behind him. He managed to fire again ere the brute headed away for a canon at some distance – fired, but in his hurry missed. All along down the hill, after reloading, he tracked the bear by his blood. And all along the grassy canon bottom till halfway up, where it was evident the grizzly had climbed to his cave.

It was foolhardy of him to follow, but he was excited, and in a minute more he was at the cave mouth. In the darkness he could see the angry gleam of the monster’s eyes; and at these he took aim, and fired. He remembered the roar the bear gave, then all was a mist. He was found by the Yankee trapper lying insensible at the cliff foot, the bear dead beside him.

Leonard got small praise for this exploit.

“It ain’t sport,” the Yankee told him, “it’s idiocy; there ain’t another name for it. You’ve done it once, but I guess it isn’t in you to do it again and live.”

One other adventure is worth relating, but in this instance it was Douglas who had a narrow escape. The dogs, of which they had several, had chased and treed an immense cougar or puma. This is but another name for the American lion, now I fear all but extinct. Why he had run from the dogs is a mystery, but there he was standing almost erect on a branch, and looking proudly and defiantly down. Douglas’s approach, gun in hand, however, was the signal for resistance. The brute crouched down and prepared to spring. Douglas knelt and prepared to fire. Bang went the gun. Down sprang the fierce and wounded puma. It would have been death indeed for Douglas had not the dogs tackled the animal. It was death for one of these faithful creatures, and others were terribly wounded. But the sportsman had time to load and fire again, and this time he made sure.

There were panthers in the woods as well, but none so large or fierce as the puma.

Killing antelopes, and various kinds of deer and elks, following the wild buffalo on the plains, hunting up the silent haunts of the turkeys, fishing and grouse shooting – all helped to make the time fly fast away, and the summer seemed to pass all too quickly by. Not that it was always fine weather in these vast solitudes. No, far from it. Out on the plains, more than once they were overtaken by terrible sandstorms, while often and often a thunderstorm broke over the mountains of such awful sublimity, that even Captain Blunt was forced to own he had never heard such sounds before, never witnessed such blinding lightning.

Anon a wind of hurricane force would arise suddenly and go tearing through the woods, breaking off branches and hurling them high in air, and snapping the largest trees off in their centres, or rending them up by the roots; and if this storm was accompanied, as it often was, by rains, then the torrents that came roaring down from the mountain sides, bringing boulders and broken wood with them, would have appalled the stoutest heart to look upon them.

Then came on the sweet, soft Indian summer, the woods arrayed in all the glorious tints of the autumn, the sunsets mysterious in their very beauty, the air soft and balmy and bracing.

It was on one of these delightful days that the whole party, with the exception of Leonard – who was busy curing bird-skins – set out for a hunt for wild sheep across the plains.

The Blizzard. A Race for Life

Towards evening they were quietly returning after a successful day, and were still on the plains, when, with an alarming suddenness, the sun and sky became obscured, and a cold, cutting wind began to blow. Both the trapper and Indians knew what was coming. The buffalo meat was cast away, left on the plain to feed the wolves, and on they dashed to reach the shelter of the canon ere the blizzard came down on them in all its terrible and blinding force. It got rapidly darker, and the snow was driven and whirled around them with the force of a hurricane. Both Douglas and Blunt fell many times, and but for the Indians could never have reached the shelter. They got to the cañon at last, however, and by good luck into the very cave where Leonard had killed the bear. Meanwhile all was darkness, and storm, and chaos without. Here they were, and here they must remain till morning.

Indians

But how fared it with Leonard? His work being finished, towards evening he took his gun, and accompanied by a dog set out to meet his friends. As usual with this student of nature, he was looking more at the ground than around him, till the quick, sharp ringing bark of his dog fell on his ear. Then he glanced upwards, and found himself face to face with Indians in their war-paint. They were Ojibbeways. On levelling his gun they retreated to a bush, and he made his way back towards the fort, a shower of arrows falling around him, and some piercing his clothes as he did so.

He speedily got up the drawbridge, and none too soon, for on came the savages.

But on came the blizzard. Down swept the storm, and the boldest Indian that ever trod could not face that fearful snow-gale.

All that night the storm raged. All that night Captain Blunt and his party shivered in their cave, while at the fort Leonard waited and watched.

Book Three – Chapter Two

Fighting with Indians

“But yonder comes the powerful king of day

Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud,

The kindling azure, and the mountain’s brow

Illumed with gold, his near approach

Betoken glad.”

Thomson.

Scene: The fort in the Rocky Mountains. Morning breaking in the east. Wind hushed. Captain Blunt and party making their way along the bottom of the cañon, which in many places is deep in drifted snow.

Who can paint in words the beauty, the glory of a sunrise among the mountains? Why wish to be a poet – even a Longfellow?

Why wish to be even a Turner? for what artist that ever lived could sketch in colour the deep blue of yonder sky, or the great grey clouds that, even as we look change slowly to yellow and gold; or that strip of crimson, or the darkness of those pine trees outshining from the blue uncertain horizon’s haze?

Some such thoughts as these rushed through Leonard’s mind as he stood on the ramparts of the little fort that had been to him and his friends a quiet romantic home for so many months. For those friends, though still absent, he somehow felt no anxiety. They were well armed, and if they met the hostile Indians, they could no doubt give a good account of them, if indeed the enemy should be brave enough to come to close quarters. But despite the tales of Cooper – who has managed to encircle the Red Man with a halo of romance – Leonard had been long enough in the woods to find out that just as the American novelist depended upon imagination for the facts embodied in his delightful stories, so the American Indian depends upon numbers for his courage. He is bold and daring enough when he is in strong force, and when sure of victory. Then he will fight. I am not belying him.

When the party did arrive at the fort, they were much astonished at what Leonard had to tell them.

“And the blizzard sent them adrift, eh?” said Captain Blunt. “Well, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.”

“But they’ll come back,” said the trapper. “Gentlemen, they’ll return, that’s as sartain as sunrise.”

The Indian guides thought the same.

So the drawbridge was kept up all day.

But night after night passed by, and still there was no sign of the Ojibbeways. Our party got bolder, and went hunting as usual.

But one day a scout found an unmistakable trail, and they followed it up and up for many miles, till it led them to the top of a high hill. They did not show themselves over this, for far away in a green valley beneath they beheld an encampment; Indians on the warpath undoubtedly, with fleet, wild-looking horses hobbled near them, and a cooking fire smoking in their midst. There could not be less than fifty at the least. Well, the fort was well stocked to stand a siege. But a siege was

the

one thing the party wanted to avoid. Pleasant as was this land in summer and autumn, no one of them wished to winter here. It was determined, therefore, to dispatch one of the Indian scouts for assistance to his tribe. It would be a terrible adventure, to journey all alone over hill and dale and prairie land in an enemy’s country, but the promise of a reward was sufficient to make several volunteer.

Another went out every night to watch the enemy. They had come nearer, and were now only three miles from the fort.

Now, there is nothing that Britons will not dare; and when one evening Leonard said, —

“I say, Douglas, some of those Indian horses would come in handy to assist in our journey homeward.”

“That they would,” replied Douglas. “I was thinking the same.”

“Hurrah!” then said Leonard; “let us have them.”

So it was agreed to make the attempt.

And this is how it was accomplished. Four of the friendly Indians made a

détour

, and attacked the camp of the foe in the rear. It was a lovely moonlight night, and this ruse was completely successful. The enemy sprang to their bows and arrows, and prepared to repel the attack. A shot or two was fired, then the friendlies ran pursued by the foe. The white men had it all their own way now; they speedily picked out eight of the best horses, and were soon galloping off camp-wards as quickly as the nature of the ground would permit.

In this case, at all events, fortune favoured the brave, and all got safe inside the fort, only one Indian being wounded slightly.

But the Ojibbeways determined on revenge, and the very next night quite a cloud of arrows was poured into the fort, and then an attempt made to scale the rampart, the savages making night hideous with their howlings and wild cries. They had to retire worsted, however, and it was nearly a week before they again made an attack. But meanwhile they had been greatly reinforced, and the fight was now a terrible one. It began while it still was dark, but soon the moon rose, then the Indians suffered severely for their rashness.

For many days, and night after night, these attacks were made. None of the white men were wounded, but one friendly was killed, and another put

hors de combat

. Things began to look very serious, and if assistance came not soon Captain Blunt feared the very worst.

“Surely,” thought Leonard and Douglas, “the worst has come,” when one night the poor trapper fell at their feet, pierced through the heart with an arrow. This night’s attack was a fearful one. The savages, regardless of their lives, leapt on top of the rampart, though only to fall dead within the enclosure.

But more took their place, and the fighting went on with redoubled fury.

“I fear all is up,” said Captain Blunt in a moment’s lull; “let us sell our lives dearly.”

But hark! what was that wild, unearthly yell in the rear of the foe?

All listened. The savages who had been coming on again towards the fort fell back. The cries and yells were redoubled, and the din was horrible, awful!

“Hurrah!” cried Blunt, “we are saved! The friendlies have come!”

And so it was. The battle in the bush raged for fully an hour, then up rushed the scout who had so bravely done his duty. The drawbridge was lowered, and in he dashed, and after him fully a hundred of his own tribe, all in their war-paint, all fully armed, and, ghastly sight! nearly all had scalps hanging to their girdles.

The very next day the fort was deserted, and the march eastward was commenced. It was a very long and a very toilsome one. But they reached civilisation safely at last. The friendly Indians thought themselves well rewarded by being presented with the horses. And considering that Captain Blunt and party had obtained the animals cheaply enough, it was no wonder that satisfaction was expressed on both sides.

They found the

Gloaming Star

ready for sea, and after selling their skins and curios they embarked, and made all sail for the sunny south. All the winter and spring was spent in cruising around the West Indian Islands. They even stretched across to lonely Bermuda, encountering a hurricane on the passage, which well-nigh dismantled the ship, and necessitated a longer stay at the islands than they desired. Then southwards and west, touching at Rio Janeiro, the most romantic and lovely harbour in the world.

Monte Video, however, which they reached at last, did not afterwards shine in their memories as Janeiro did. Its low flat lands, its shallow seas and fogs, were not impressive in a pleasant way. But they found the inhabitants – even then a strange mixture of nationalities – kind and hospitable, and Leonard, Douglas, and Captain Blunt accepted an invitation to go for sport into the interior.

The roads were terribly rough; there were no railways here in those days. The roads were rough and the roads were long, but they found themselves at last on the very confines of civilisation. And here they spent some months, most pleasantly, too, though their adventures were not without danger. They found the new settlers at war with the Indians, the latter being a most treacherous race, possessing all the cunning, though hardly so much of the extreme cruelty, which forms so marked a characteristic of the Red men of the American wilderness.

Both Douglas and Leonard soon became adepts in riding the half-wild horses over the plains, and in hunting the emu and llama, in throwing the lasso and the bolas.

“It seems to me,” said Douglas, one day, “that I would like to live in this wild land for ever and a day.”

“It seems to me,” replied Leonard, “that I have been here all my life.”

Everything was so new in this country, and as they happened to be favoured with fine weather, some brief but terrible storms excepted, everything was so lovely. They

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Born to Wander: A Boy's Book of Nomadic Adventures

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