We Know
All About The Comfort And Cheer That Goes With Us, And Then - We Have
Not Been Left Behind!
RYAN'S JUNCTION, IDAHO TERRITORY,
October, 1877.
WE are snow-bound, and everyone seems to think we that we will be
compelled to remain here several days. It was bright and sunny when
the camp was made yesterday, but before dark a terrible blizzard came
up, and by midnight the snow was deep and the cold intense. As long as
we remain inside the tents we are quite comfortable with the little
conical sheet-iron stoves that can make a tent very warm. And the snow
that had banked around the canvas keeps out the freezing-wind. We
have everything for our comfort, but such weather does not make life
in camp at all attractive.
Faye just came in from Major Pierce's tent, where he says he saw a
funny sight. They have a large hospital tent, on each side of which is
a row of iron cots, and on the cots were five chubby little
children - one a mere baby - kicking up their little pink feet in jolly
defiance of their patient old mammy, who was trying to keep them
covered up. The tent was warm and cozy, but outside, where the snow
was so deep and the cold so penetrating, one could hardly have
believed that these small people could have been made so warm and
happy. But Mrs. Pierce is a wonderful mother! Major Pierce was opposed
to bringing his family on this long march, to be exposed to all kinds
of weather, but Mrs. Pierce had no idea of being left behind with two
days of car and eight days of the worst kind of stage travel between
her husband and herself; so, like a sensible woman, she took matters
in her own hands, and when we reached Chicago, where she had been
visiting, there at the station was the smiling Mrs. Pierce with
babies, governess, nurses, and trunks, all splendidly prepared to come
with us - and come they all did. After the major had scolded a little
and eased his conscience, he smiled as much as the other members of
the family.
The children with us seem to be standing the exposure wonderfully
well. One or two were pale at first, but have become rosy and strong,
although there is much that must be very trying to them and the
mothers also. The tents are "struck" at six sharp in the morning, and
that means that we have to be up at four and breakfast at five. That
the bedding must be rolled, every little thing tucked away in trunks
or bags, the mess chest packed, and the cooking stove and cooking
utensils not only made ready to go safely in the wagon, but they must
be carried out of the tents before six o'clock. At that time the
soldiers come, and, when the bugle sounds, down go the tents, and if
anything happens to be left inside, it has to be fished out from
underneath the canvas or left there until the tent is folded. The days
are so short now that all this has to be done in the darkness, by
candle or lantern light, and how mothers can get their small people up
and ready for the day by six o'clock, I cannot understand, for it is
just all I can manage to get myself and the tent ready by that time.
We are on the banks of a small stream, and the tents are evidently
pitched directly upon the roosting ground of wild geese, for during
the snowstorm thousands of them came here long after dark, making the
most dreadful uproar one ever heard, with the whirring of their big
wings and constant "honk! honk!" of hundreds of voices. They circled
around so low and the calls were so loud that it seemed sometimes as
if they were inside the tents. They must have come home for shelter
and become confused and blinded by the lights in the tents, and the
loss of their ground. We must be going through a splendid country for
game.
I was very ill for several days on the way up, the result of
malaria - perhaps too many scuppernong grapes at Pass Christian, and
jolting of the heavy army wagon that makes a small stone seem the size
of a boulder. One morning I was unable to walk or even stand up, and
Faye and Major Bryant carried me to the wagon on a buffalo robe. All
of that day's march Faye walked by the side of my wagon, and that
allowed him no rest whatever, for in order to make it as easy for me
as possible, my wagon had been placed at the extreme end of the long
line. The troops march fifty minutes and halt ten, and as we went much
slower than the men marched, we would about catch up with the column
at each rest, just when the bugle would be blown to fall in line
again, and then on the troops and wagons would go, Faye was kept on a
continuous tramp. I still think that he should have asked permission
to ride on the wagon, part of the day at least, but he would not do
so.
One evening when the camp was near a ranch, I heard Doctor Gordon tell
Faye outside the tent that I must be left at the place in the morning,
that I was too ill to go farther! I said not a word about having heard
this, but I promised myself that I would go on. The dread of being
left with perfect strangers, of whom I knew nothing, and where I could
not possibly have medical attendance, did not improve my condition,
but fear gave me strength, and in the morning when camp broke I
assured Doctor Gordon that I was better, very much better, and stuck
to it with so much persistence that at last he consented to my going
on.
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