CHAPTER X.
Amusements in the Camp. Consultations. Hunters'
fare and feasting. Evening scenes. Camp
melody. The fate of an amateur Owl.
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On returning to the camp, we found it a scene
of the greatest hilarity. Some of the rangers
were shooting at a mark, others were leaping,
wrestling, and playing at prison bars. They
were mostly young men, on their first expedition,
in high health and vigour, and buoyant with anticipations;
and I can conceive nothing more
likely to set the youthful blood into a flow, than
a wild wood life of the kind, and the range of
a magnificent wilderness, abounding with game,
and fruitful of adventure. We send our youth
abroad to grow luxurious and effeminate in Europe;
it appears to me, that a previous tour on
the prairies would be more likely to produce
that manliness, simplicity, and self-dependence,
most in unison with our political institutions.
While the young men were engaged in these
boisterous amusements, a graver set, composed
of the Captain, the Doctor, and other sages and
leaders of the camp, were seated or stretched out
on the grass, round a frontier map, holding a
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consultation about our position, and the course
we were to pursue.
Our plan was to cross the Arkansas just above
where the Red Fork falls into it, then to keep
westerly, until we should pass through a grand
belt of open forest, called the Cross Timber,
which ranges nearly north and south from the
Arkansas to Red river; after which, we were
to keep a southerly course towards the latter
river.
Our half-breed, Beatte, being an experienced
Osage hunter, was called into the consultation.
“Have you ever hunted in this direction?” said
the Captain. “Yes,” was the laconic reply.
“Perhaps, then, you can tell us in which direction
lies the Red Fork.”
“If you keep along yonder, by the edge of
the prairie, you will come to a bald hill, with a
pile of stones upon it.”
“I have noticed that hill as I was hunting,”
said the Captain.
“Well! those stones were set up by the Osages
as a land mark: from that spot you may have a
sight of the Red Fork.”
“In that case,” cried the Captain, “we shall
reach the Red Fork to-morrow; then cross the
Arkansas above it, into the Pawnee country, and
then in two days we shall crack buffalo bones!”
The idea of arriving at the adventurous
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hunting grounds of the Pawnees, and of coming upon
the traces of the buffaloes, made every eye
sparkle with animation. Our further conversation
was interrupted by the sharp report of a
rifle, at no great distance from the camp.
“That's old Ryan's rifle,” exclaimed the Captain;
“there's a buck down, I'll warrant:” nor
was he mistaken; for, before long, the veteran
made his appearance, calling upon one of the
younger rangers to return with him, and aid in
bringing home the carcass.
The surrounding country, in fact, abounded
with game, so that the camp was overstocked
with provisions, and, as no less than twenty beetrees
had been cut down in the vicinity, every
one revelled in luxury. With the wasteful
prodigality of hunters, there was a continual
feasting, and scarce any one put by provision
for the morrow. The cooking was conducted
in hunters' style: the meat was stuck upon tapering
spits of dogwood, the ends of which were
thrust into the ground, so as to sustain the joint
before the fire, where it was roasted or broiled
with all its juices retained in it in a manner that
would have tickled the palate of the most experienced
gourmand. As much could not be
said in favour of the bread. It was little more
than a paste made of flour and water, and fried
like fritters, in lard; though some adopted a
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ruder style, twisting it round the ends of sticks,
and thus roasting it before the fire. In either
way, I have found it extremely palatable on the
prairies. No one knows the true relish of food
until he has a hunter's appetite.
Before sunset, we were summoned by little
Tonish to a sumptuous repast. Blankets had
been spread on the ground near to the fire, upon
which we took our seats. A large dish, or bowl,
made from the root of a maple tree, and which
we had purchased at the Indian village, was
placed on the ground before us, and into it were
emptied the contents of one of the camp kettles,
consisting of a wild turkey hashed, together
with slices of bacon and lumps of dough. Beside
it was placed another bowl of similar ware, containing
an ample supply of fritters. After we
had discussed the hash, the ribs of a fat buck,
which stood impaled on two wooden spits, and
broiling before the fire, were planted in the
ground before us, with a triumphant air, by little
Tonish. Having no dishes, we had to proceed
in hunters' style, cutting off strips and slices
with our hunting-knives, and dipping them in
salt and pepper. To do justice to Tonish's
cookery, however, and to the keen sauce of the
prairies, never have I tasted venison so delicious.
With all this, our beverage was coffee, boiled in
a camp kettle, sweetened with brown sugar,
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and drunk out of tin cups: and such was the
style of our banqueting throughout this expedition,
whenever provisions were plenty, and as
long as flour and coffee and sugar held out.
As the twilight thickened into night, the sentinels
were marched forth to their stations around
the camp; an indispensable precaution in a
country infested by Indians. The encampment
now presented a picturesque appearance. Camp
fires were blazing and smouldering here and
there among the trees, with groups of rangers
round them; some seated or lying on the
ground, others standing in the ruddy glare of the
flames, or in shadowy relief. At some of the
fires there was much boisterous mirth, where
peals of laughter were mingled with loud ribald
jokes and uncouth exclamations; for the troop
was evidently a raw, undisciplined band, levied
among the wild youngsters of the frontier, who
had enlisted, some for the sake of roving adventure,
and some for the purpose of getting a
knowledge of the country. Many of them were
the neighbours of their officers, and accustomed
to regard them with the familiarity of equals
and companions. None of them had any idea
of the restraint and decorum of a camp, or ambition
to acquire a name for exactness in a profession
in which they had no intention of continuing.
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While this boisterous merriment prevailed at
some of the fires, there suddenly rose a strain of
nasal melody from another, at which a choir of
“vocalists” were uniting their voices in a most
lugubrious psalm tune. This was led by one of
the lieutenants; a tall, spare man, who we were
informed had officiated as schoolmaster, singingmaster,
and occasionally as methodist preacher,
in one of the villages of the frontier. The chant
rose solemnly and sadly in the night air, and reminded
me of the description of similar canticles
in the camps of the Covenanters; and, indeed,
the strange medley of figures and faces
and uncouth garbs, congregated together in our
troop, would not have disgraced the banners of
Praise-God Barebones.
In one of the intervals of this nasal psalmody,
an amateur owl, as if in competition, began his
dreary hooting. Immediately there was a cry
throughout the camp of “Charley's owl! Charley's
owl!” It seems this “obscure bird” had
visited the camp every night, and had been fired
at by one of the sentinels, a half-witted lad,
named Charley; who, on being called up for
firing when on duty, excused himself by saying,
that he understood that owls made uncommonly
good soup.
One of the young rangers mimicked the cry
of this bird of wisdom, who, with a simplicity
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little consonant with his character, came hovering
within sight, and alighted on the naked
branch of a tree, lit up by the blaze of our fire.
The young Count immediately seized his fowling-piece,
took fatal aim, and in a twinkling the poor
bird of ill omen came fluttering to the ground.
Charley was now called upon to make and eat
his dish of owl-soup, but declined, as he had not
shot the bird.
In the course of the evening, I paid a visit to
the Captain's fire. It was composed of huge
trunks of trees, and of sufficient magnitude to
roast a buffalo whole. Here were a number of
the prime hunters and leaders of the camp, some
sitting, some standing, and others lying on skins
or blankets before the fire, telling old frontier
stories about hunting and Indian warfare.
As the night advanced, we perceived above
the trees to the west, a ruddy glow flushing up
the sky.
“That must be a prairie set on fire by the
Osage hunters,” said the Captain.
“It is at the Red Fork,” said Beatte, regarding
the sky. “It seems but three miles distant,
yet it perhaps is twenty.”
About half past eight o'clock, a beautiful pale
light gradually sprang up in the east, a precursor
of the rising moon. Drawing off from the
Captain's lodge, I now prepared for the night's
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repose. I had determined to abandon the shelter
of the tent, and henceforth to bivouack like
the rangers. A bearskin spread at the foot of a
tree was my bed, with a pair of saddle-bags for
a pillow. Wrapping myself in blankets, I
stretched myself on this hunter's couch, and
soon fell into a sound and sweet sleep, from
which I did not awake until the bugle sounded
at daybreak.
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Irving, Washington, 1783-1859 [1835], A tour on the prairies, from The Crayon miscellany, volume 1 (Carey, Lea, & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf221v1].
