My heart sank within me. The provisions and blankets were
with him. I do not think that at any point of my journey I
had ever felt fear - panic that is - till now. Starvation
stared me in the face. My wits refused to suggest a line of
action. I was stunned. I felt then what I have often felt
since, what I still feel, that it is possible to wrestle
successfully with every difficulty that man has overcome, but
not with that supreme difficulty - man's stupidity. It did
not then occur to me to give a name to the impatience that
seeks to gather grapes of thorns or figs of thistles.
I turned back, retraced my steps till I came to the track of
the mules. Luckily the ground retained the footprints,
though sometimes these would be lost for a hundred yards or
so. Just as I anticipated - Samson had wound round the base
of the very first hill he came to; then, instead of
correcting the deviation, and steering for the mountains, had
simply followed his nose, and was now travelling due east, -
in other words, was going back over our track of the day
before. It was past noon when I overtook him, so that a
precious day's labour was lost.
I said little, but that little was a sentence of death.
'After to-day,' I began, 'we will travel separately.'
At first he seemed hardly to take in my meaning. I explained
it.
'As well as I can make out, before we get to the Dalles,
where we ought to find the American outposts, we have only
about 150 miles to go. This should not take more than eight
or nine days. I can do it in a week alone, but not with you.
I have come to the conclusion that with you I may not be able
to do it at all. We have still those mountains' - pointing
to the Blue Mountain range in the distance - 'to cross. They
are covered with snow, as you see. We may find them
troublesome. In any case our food will only last eight or
nine days more, even at the present rate. You shall have the
largest half of what is left, for you require more than I do.
But I cannot, and will not, sacrifice my life for your sake.
I have made up my mind to leave you.'
It must always be a terrible thing for a judge to pass the
sentence of death. But then he is fulfilling a duty, merely
carrying out a law which is not of his making. Moreover, he
has no option - the responsibility rests with the jury; last
of all, the sufferer is a criminal. Between the judge's case
and mine there was no analogy. My act was a purely selfish
one - justifiable I still think, though certainly not
magnanimous. I was quite aware of this at the time, but a
starving man is not burdened with generosity.
