Part 17 (1/2)
The rush of emigration from the western states to California, by the overland route, that took place at this time, was attended with the most appalling sufferings and loss of life. Men sold off their snug farms, packed their heavy waggons with the necessaries for a journey, with their wives and little ones, over a wilderness more than two thousand miles in extent, and set off by scores over the prairies towards the Ultima Thule of the far west. The first part of their journey was prosperous enough, but the weight of their waggons rendered the pace slow, and it was late in the season ere they reached the great barrier of the Rocky Mountains. But severe although the sufferings of those first emigrants were, they were as nothing compared with the dire calamities that befell those who started from home later in the season.
All along the route the herbage was cropped bare by those who had gone before; their oxen broke down; burning sandy deserts presented themselves when the wretched travellers were well-nigh exhausted; and when at length they succeeded in reaching the great mountain-chain, its dark pa.s.ses were filled with the ice and snow of early winter.
Hundreds of men, women, and children, fell down and died on the burning plain, or clambered up the rugged heights to pillow their dying heads at last on wreaths of snow. To add to the unheard-of miseries of these poor people, scurvy in its worst forms attacked them; and the air of many of their camping places was heavy with the stench arising from the dead bodies of men and animals that had perished by the way.
”It was late in the season,” said Kate Morgan, as Larry's new friend was named, ”when me brother Patrick an' I set off with our waggon and oxen, an' my little sister Nelly, who was just able to run about, with her curly yellow hair streamin' over her purty shoulders, an' her laughin'
blue eyes, almost spakin' when they looked at ye.”
The poor girl spoke with deep pathos as she mentioned Nelly's name, while Larry O'Neil sat with his hands clasped, gazing at her with an expression of the deepest commiseration.
”We got pretty well on at first,” she continued, after a pause, ”because our waggon was lighter than most o' the others; but it was near winter before we got to the mountains, an' then our troubles begood. First of all, one o' the oxen fell, and broke its leg. Then darlin' Nelly fell sick, and Patrick had to carry her on his back up the mountains, for I had got so weak meself that I wasn't fit to take her up. All the way over I was troubled with one o' the emigrants that kep' us company-- there was thirty o' us altogether--he was a very bad man, and none o' us liked him. He took a fancy to me, an' asked me to be his wife so often that I had to make Patrick order him to kape away from us altogether.
He wint off in a black rage, swearin' he'd be revenged,--an' oh!”
continued Kate, wringing her hands, ”he kept his word. One day there was a dispute between our leaders which way we should go, for we had got to two pa.s.ses in the mountains; so one party went one way, and we went another. Through the night, my--my lover came into our camp to wish me good-bye, he said, for the last time, as he was goin' with the other party. After he was gone, I missed Nelly, and went out to seek for her among the tents o' my neighbours, but she was nowhere to be found. At once I guessed he had taken her away, for well did he know I would sooner have lost my life than my own darlin' Nell.”
Again the girl paused a few moments; then she resumed, in a low voice--
”We never saw him or Nelly again. It is said the whole party perished, an' I believe it, for they were far spent, and the road they took, I've been towld, is worse than the one we took. It was dead winter when we arrived, and Patrick and me came to live here. We made a good deal at first by diggin', but we both fell sick o' the ague, and we've been scarce able to kape us alive till now. But it won't last long. Dear Patrick is broken down entirely, as ye see, and I haven't strength a'most to go down to the diggin's for food. I haven't been there for a month, for it's four miles away, as I dare say ye know. We'll both be at rest soon.”
”Ah! now, don't say that again, avic,” cried Larry, smiting his thigh with energy; ”ye'll be nothin' o' the sort, that ye won't; sure yer brother Pat is slaipin' now like an infant, he is, an' I'll go down meself to the stores and git ye medicines an' a doctor, an' what not.
Cheer up, now--”
Larry's enthusiastic efforts to console his new friend were interrupted by the sick man, who awoke at the moment, and whispered the word ”food.”
His sister rose, and taking up a small tin pan that simmered on the fire in front of the tent, poured some of its contents into a dish.
”What is it ye give him?” inquired Larry, taking the dish from the girl's hands and putting it to his lips. He instantly spat out the mouthful, for it was soup made of rancid pork, without vegetables of any kind.
”'Tis all I've got left,” said the girl. ”Even if I was able to go down for more, he wouldn't let me; but I couldn't, for I've tried more than once, and near died on the road. Besides, I haven't a grain o' goold in the tent.”
”O morther! Tare an' ages!” cried Larry, staring first at the girl and then at her brother, while he slapped his thighs and twisted his fingers together as if he wished to wrench them out of joint.
”Howld on, faix I'll do it. Don't give it him, plaze; howld on, _do_!”
Larry O'Neil turned round as he spoke, seized his cudgel, sprang right over the bushes in front of the tent, and in two minutes more was seen far down the ravine, spurning the ground beneath him as if life and death depended on the race.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
KINDNESS TO STRANGERS IN DISTRESS--REMARKS IN REFERENCE TO EARLY RISING--DIGGINGS WAX UNPRODUCTIVE--NED TAKES A RAMBLE, AND HAS A SMALL ADVENTURE--PLANS FORMED AND PARTLY DEVELOPED--REMARKABLE HUMAN CREATURES DISCOVERED, AND STILL MORE REMARKABLE CONVERSE HELD WITH THEM.
”I'll throuble ye for two pounds of flour,” cried Larry O'Neil, das.h.i.+ng into one of the stores, which was thronged with purchasers, whom he thrust aside rather unceremoniously.
”You'll have to take your turn, stranger, I calculate,” answered the store-keeper, somewhat sharply.
”Ah thin, avic, plaze do attind to me at wance; for sure I've run four miles to git stuff for a dyin' family--won't ye now?”
The earnest manner in which Larry made this appeal was received with a laugh by the bystanders, and a recommendation to the store-keeper to give him what he wanted.
”What's the price?” inquired Larry, as the man measured it out.