Two packs containing the miserable
remains of our wardrobe, Fred's and mine, were lost. The
catastrophe produced a good deal of bad language and bad
blood. Translated into English it came to this: 'They had
trusted to us, taking it for granted we knew what we were
about. What business had we to "boss" the party if we were
as ignorant as the mules? We had guaranteed to lead them
through to California [!] and had brought them into this
"almighty fix" to slave like niggers and to starve.' There
was just truth enough in the Jeremiad to make it sting. It
would not have been prudent, nay, not very safe, to return
curse for curse. But the breaking point was reached at last.
That night I, for one, had not much sleep. I was soaked from
head to foot, and had not a dry rag for a change. Alternate
fits of fever and rigor would alone have kept me awake; but
renewed ponderings upon the situation and confirmed
convictions of the peremptory necessity of breaking up the
party, forced me to the conclusion that this was the right,
the only, course to adopt.
For another twenty-four hours I brooded over my plans. Two
main difficulties confronted me: the announcement to the
men, who might mutiny; and the parting with Fred, which I
dreaded far the most of the two. Would he not think it
treacherous to cast him off after the sacrifices he had made
for me?
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