Lillian Morris, and Other Stories

Chapter VIII

Two weeks after leaving the summer camp, we came out on the boundary of Utah, and the journey, as of old, though not without labors, advanced more briskly than at the beginning. We had yet to pass the western part of the Rocky Mountains; forming a whole network of branches called the Wasatch Range. Two considerable streams, Green and Grand Rivers, whose union forms the immense Colorado, and numerous tributaries of those two rivers, cut the mountains in every direction, opening in them passages which are easy enough. By these passages we reached after a certain time Utah Lake, where the salt lands begin. A wonderful country surrounded us, monotonous, gloomy; great level valleys encircled by cliffs with blunt outlines, – these, always alike, succeed one another, with oppressive monotony. There is in those deserts and cliffs a certain sternness, nakedness, and torpor, so that at sight of them the Biblical deserts recur to one’s mind. The lakes here are brackish, their shores fruitless and barren. There are no trees; the ground over an enormous expanse exudes salt and potash, or is covered by a gray vegetation with large felt-like leaves, which, when broken, give forth a salt, clammy sap. That journey is wearisome and oppressive, for whole weeks pass, and the desert stretches on without end, and opens into plains of eternal sameness, though they are rocky. Our strength began to give way again. On the prairies we were surrounded by the monotony of life, here by the monotony of death.

A certain oppression and indifference to everything took gradual possession of the people. We passed Utah, – always the same lifeless lands! We entered Nevada, – no change! The sun burnt so fiercely that our heads were bursting from pain; the light, reflecting from a surface covered with salt, dazzled the eye; in the air was floating a kind of dust, coming it was unknown whence, which inflamed our eyelids. The draught-beasts, time after time, seized the earth with their teeth, and dropped from sunstroke, as if felled by lightning. The majority of the people kept themselves up only with the thought that in a week or two weeks the Sierra Nevada would appear on the horizon, and behind that the desired California.

Meanwhile days passed and weeks in ever increasing labors. In the course of a certain week we were forced to leave three wagons behind, for there were no animals to draw them.

Oh, that was a land of misfortune and misery! In Nevada the desert became deeper, and our condition still worse, for disease fell upon us.

One morning people came to inform me that Smith was sick. I went to see what his trouble was, and saw with amazement that typhus had overthrown the old miner. So many climates are not changed with impunity; severe labor, in spite of short rests, makes itself felt, and the germs of disease are developed from hardship and toil. Lillian, whom Smith loved, as if she had been his own daughter, and whom he blessed on the day of our marriage, insisted on nursing him. I, weak man, trembled in my whole soul for her, but I could not forbid her to be a Christian. She sat over the sick man whole days and nights, together with Aunt Atkins and Aunt Grosvenor, who followed her example. On the second day, however, the old man lost consciousness, and on the eighth he died in Lillian’s arms. I buried him, shedding ardent tears over the remains of him who had been not only my assistant and right hand in everything, but a real father to Lillian and me. We hoped that after such a sacrifice God would take pity on us; but that was merely the beginning of our trials, for that very day another miner fell ill, and almost every day after that some one lay down in a wagon, and left it only when borne on our arms to a grave.

And thus we dragged along over the desert, and after us followed the pestilence, grasping new victims continually. In her turn Aunt Atkins fell ill, but, thanks to Lillian’s efforts, her sickness was conquered. The soul was dying in me every instant, and more than once, when Lillian was with the sick, and I somewhere on guard in front of the camp, alone in the darkness, I pressed my temples with my hands and knelt down in prayer to God. Obedient as a dog, I was whining for mercy on her without daring to say: “Let Thy will and not mine be done.” Sometimes in the night, when we were alone, I woke suddenly, for it seemed to me that the pestilence was pushing the canvas of my wagon aside and staring in, looking for Lillian. All the intervals when I was not with her, and they formed most of the time, were for me changed into one torture, under which I bent as a tree before a whirlwind. Lillian, however, had been equal to all toils and efforts so far. Though the strongest men fell, I saw her emaciated it is true, pale, and with marks of maternity increasingly definite on her forehead, but in health, and going from wagon to wagon. I dared not even ask if she were well; I only took her by the shoulders and pressed her long and long to my breast, and even had I wished to speak, something so oppressed me, that I could not have uttered a word.

Gradually, however, hope began to enter me, and in my head were sounding no longer those terrible words of the Bible: “Who worshipped and served the creature more than the Creator.” We were nearing the western part of Nevada, where, beyond the belt of dead lakes, the salt lands and desert rocks find an end, and a belt of prairie begins, more level, greener, and very fertile. During two days’ journey no one fell ill; I thought that our misery was over. And it was high time!

Nine men had died, six were ailing yet; under the fear of infection discipline had begun to relax; nearly all the horses were dead, and the mules seemed rather skeletons than beasts. Of the fifty wagons with which we had moved out of the summer camp, only thirty-two were dragging now over the desert. Besides, since no one wished to go hunting lest he might fall somewhere away from the caravan and be left without aid, our supplies, not being replenished, were coming to an end. Wishing to spare them, we had lived for a week past on black ground squirrels; but their malodorous meat had so disgusted us that we put it to our mouths with loathing, and even that wretched food was not found in sufficiency. Beyond the lakes, however, game became more frequent, and grass was abundant. Again we met Indians, who, in opposition to their custom, attacked us in daylight and on the open plain; having firearms, they killed four of our people. In the conflict I received such a severe wound in the head from a hatchet that in the evening of that day I lost consciousness from loss of blood; but I was happy since Lillian was nursing me, and not patients from whom she might catch the typhus. Three days I lay in the wagon, pleasant days, since I was with her continually. I could kiss her hands when she was changing the bandages, and look at her. On the third day I was able to sit on horseback; but the soul was weak in me, and I feigned sickness before myself so as to be with her longer.

Only then did I discover how tired I had been, and what weariness had gone out of my bones while I was lying prostrate. Before my illness I had suffered not a little concerning my wife. I had grown as thin as a skeleton, and as formerly I had been looking with fear and alarm at her, so now she was looking with the same feelings at me. But when my head had ceased to fall from shoulder to shoulder there was no help for it; I had to mount the last living horse and lead the caravan forward, especially as certain alarming signs were surrounding us on all sides. There was a heat well-nigh preternatural, and in the air a dull haze as if of smoke from a distant burning; the horizon became dull and dark. It was impossible to see the sky, and the rays of the sun came to the earth red and sickly; the draught-beasts showed a wonderful disquiet, and, breathing hoarsely, bared their teeth. As to us, we inhaled fire with our breasts. The heat was caused, as I thought, by one of those stifling winds from the Gila desert, of which men had told me in the East; but there was stillness round about, and not a grass blade was stirring on the plain. In the evening the sun went down as red as blood, and stifling nights followed. The sick groaned for water, the dogs howled. Whole nights I wandered around a number of miles from the camp to make sure that the plains were not burning; but there was no fire in sight anywhere. I calmed myself finally with the thought that the smoke must be from a fire that had gone out already. In the daytime I noticed that hares, antelopes, buffaloes, even squirrels, were hastening eastward, as if fleeing from that California to which we were going with such effort. But since the air had become a little purer and the heat somewhat less, I settled finally in the thought that there had been a fire which had ceased, that the animals were merely looking for food in some new place. It was only needful for us to push up as soon as possible to the burnt strip, and learn whether the belt of fire could be crossed or whether we should go around it. According to my calculation it could not be more than three hundred miles to the Sierra Nevada, or about twenty days’ journey. I resolved, therefore, to reach it, even with our last effort.

We travelled at night now, for during the hours of midday heat weakened the animals greatly, and among the wagons there was always some shade in which they could rest.

One night, being unable to remain on horseback because of weariness and my wound, I sat in the wagon with Lillian. I heard all at once a sudden wheezing and biting of the wheels striking on some peculiar ground; at the same time shouts of “Stop! stop!” were heard along the whole length of the train. I sprang from the wagon at once. By the light of the moon I saw the drivers bent to the earth and looking at it carefully. At the same moment a voice called:

“Ho, captain, we are travelling on coals.”

I bent down, felt the earth, – we were travelling on a burnt prairie. I stopped the caravan at once, and we remained the rest of the night on that spot. With the first light of morning a wonderful sight struck our eyes: As far as we could see, there lay a plain black as coal, – not only were all the bushes and grass burnt, but the earth was so glossy that the feet of our mules and the wheels of the wagons were reflected in it as they might have been in a mirror. We could not see clearly the width of the fire, for the horizon was still hazy from smoke; but I gave command without hesitation to turn to the south, so as to reach the edge of that tract instead of venturing on the burnt country. I knew from experience what it is to travel on burnt prairie land where there is not a blade of grass for draught-beasts. Since evidently the fire had moved northward with the wind, I hoped by going toward the south to reach the beginning of it.

The people obeyed my order, it is true, but rather unwillingly, for it involved God knows how long a delay in the journey. During our halt at noon the smoke became thinner; but if it did, the heat grew so terrible that the air quivered from its fervency, and all at once something took place which might seem a miracle.

On a sudden the haze and smoke parted, as if at a signal, and before our eyes rose the Sierra Nevada, green, smiling, wonderful, covered with gleaming snow on the summits, and so near that with the naked eye we could see the dents in the mountains, the green lakes, and the forests. It seemed to us that a fresh breeze filled with odors from the pitchy fir was coming to us above the burnt fields, and that in a few hours we should reach the flowery foothills. At this sight the people, worn out with the terrible desert and with labors, went out of their minds almost with delight; some fell on the ground sobbing, others stretched forth their hands toward heaven or burst into laughter, others grew pale without power to speak. Lillian and I wept from delight too, which in me was mingled with astonishment, for I had thought that a hundred and fifty miles at least separated us yet from California; but there were the mountains smiling at us across the burnt plain, and they seemed to approach as if by magic, and bend toward us and invite us and lure us on.

The hours fixed for rest had not passed yet, but the people would not hear of a longer halt. Even the sick stretched out their yellow hands from beneath the canvas roofs and begged us to harness the mules and drive on. Briskly and willingly we moved forward, and to the biting of the wheels on the charred earth were joined the cracking of whips, shouts, and songs; of driving around the burnt tract there was not a word now. Why go around when a few tens of miles farther on was California and its marvellous snowy mountains? We went straight across toward them.

Meanwhile the smoke covered the bright view from us again with a wonderful suddenness. Hours passed; the horizon came nearer. At last the sun went down; night came. The stars twinkled dimly on the sky, but we went forward without rest; still the mountains were evidently farther than they seemed. About midnight the mules began to squeal and balk; an hour later the caravan stopped, for the greater number of the beasts had lain down. The men tried to raise them, but there was no chance of doing so. Not an eye closed all night. At the first rays of light our glances flew eagerly into the distance and – found nothing. A dark mourning desert extended as far as the eye could see, monotonous, dull, defining itself with a sharp line at the horizon; of yesterday’s mountains there was not a trace.

The people were amazed. To me the ominous word “mirage” explained everything, but also it went with a quiver to the marrow of my bones. What was to be done, – go on? But if that burnt plain extended for hundreds of miles? Return, and then seek some miles distant the end of the burnt tract? – but had the mules strength to go back over the same road? I hardly dared to look to the bottom of that abyss, on the brink of which we were all standing. I wished, however, to know what course to take. I mounted my horse, moved forward, and from a neighboring elevation I took in with my eye a wider horizon with the aid of a field-glass. I saw in the distance a green strip. When I reached it, however, after an hour’s journey, the place turned out to be merely a lake along the bank of which the fire had not destroyed vegetation completely. The burnt plain extended farther than vision through the glass. There was no help, it was necessary to turn back the caravan and go around the fire. For that purpose I turned my horse. I expected to find the wagons where I had left them, for I had given command to wait for me there. Meanwhile, disobeying my command, they had raised the mules, and the caravan went on. To my questions they answered moodily: “There are the mountains, we will go to them.”

I did not try even to struggle, for I saw that there was no human power present to stop those men. Perhaps I should have gone back alone with Lillian, but my wagon was not there, and Lillian had gone on with Aunt Atkins.

We advanced. Night came again, and with it a forced halt. Out of the burnt plain rose a great lurid moon and lighted the distance, which was equally black. In the morning only half of the wagons could be moved, for the mules of the others had died. The heat of that day was dreadful. The sun’s rays, absorbed by the charred land, filled the air with fire. On the road one of the sick men expired in dreadful convulsions, and no one undertook his burial; we laid him down on the plain and went farther.

The water in the lake at which I had been the day before refreshed men and animals for a time, but could not restore their strength. The mules had not nipped a grass blade for thirty-six hours, and had lived only on straw which we took out of the wagons; but even that failed them now. We marked the road as we went with their bodies, and on the third day there was left one only, which I took by force for Lillian. The wagons and the tools in them, which were to give us bread in California, remained in that desert, – be it cursed for all ages!

Every one now except Lillian went on foot. Soon a new enemy looked us in the eyes, – hunger. A part of our provisions had been left in the wagons, that which each one could carry was eaten. Meanwhile there was not a living thing in the country around us. I alone in the whole caravan had biscuits yet and a piece of salt meat; but I hid them for Lillian, and I was ready to rend any man to pieces who would mention that food. I ate nothing myself, and that terrible plain stretched on without end.

As if to add to our torments the mirage appeared in the midday hours on the plain again, showing us mountains and forests with lakes; but the nights were more terrible than ever. All the rays which that charred land stole from the sun in the daytime came out at night, scorching our feet and parching our throats. On such a night one man lost his mind, and sitting on the ground burst into spasmodical laughter, and that dreadful laughter followed us long in the darkness. The mule on which Lillian was riding fell; the famishing people tore it to bits in a twinkle, but what food was that for two hundred!

The fourth day passed and the fifth. From hunger, the faces of the people became like those of birds of some kind, and they began to look with hate at one another. They knew that I had provisions; but they knew, too, that to ask one crumb of me was death, hence the instinct of life overcame in them hunger. I gave food to Lillian only at night, so as not to enrage them with the sight of it. She implored me by all that was holy to take my share, but I threatened to put a bullet in my brain if she even mentioned it. She was able, however, to steal from my watchfulness crumbs which she gave to Aunt Atkins and Aunt Grosvenor. At that time hunger was tearing my entrails with iron hand, and my head was burning from the wound.

For five days there had been nothing in my mouth but water from that lake. The thought that I was carrying bread and meat, that I had them with me, that I could eat, became a torture; I was afraid besides, that being wounded, I might go mad and seize the food.

“O Lord!” cried I in spirit, “suffer me not to become so far brutalized as to touch that which is to keep her in life!” But there was no mercy above me. On the morning of the sixth day I saw on Lillian’s face fiery spots; her hands were inflamed, she panted loudly. All at once she looked at me wanderingly, and said in haste, hurrying lest she might lose presence of mind, —

“Ralph, leave me here; save yourself, there is no hope for me.”

I gritted my teeth, for I wanted to howl and blaspheme; but saying nothing I took her by the hands. Fiery zigzags began to leap before my eyes in the air, and to form the words: “Who worshipped and served the creature more than the Creator?” I had broken like a bow too much bent; so, staring at the merciless heavens, I exclaimed with my whole soul in rebellion, —

“I!”

Meanwhile I was bearing to the mount of execution my dearest burden, this my only one, my saint, my beloved martyr.

I know not where I found strength; I was insensible to hunger, to heat, to suffering. I saw nothing before me, neither people nor the burning plain; I saw nothing but Lillian. That night she grew worse. She lost consciousness; at times she groaned in a low voice, —

“Ralph, water!” And oh, torments! I had only salt meat and dry biscuits. In supreme despair I cut my arm with a knife to moisten her lips with my blood; she grew conscious, cried out, and fell into a protracted faint, from which I thought she would not recover. When she came to herself she wished to say something, but the fever had blunted her mind, and she only murmured, —

“Ralph, be not angry! I am your wife.”

I carried her farther in silence. I had grown stupid from pain.

The seventh day came. The Sierra Nevada appeared at last on the horizon, and as the sun was going down the life of my life began to quench also. When she was dying I placed her on the burnt ground and knelt beside her. Her widely opened eyes were gleaming and fixed on me; thought appeared in them for a moment, and she whispered, —

“My dear, my husband!” Then a quiver ran through her, fear was on her face, – and she died. I tore the bandages from my head, and lost consciousness. I have no memory of what happened after that. As in a kind of dream I remember people who surrounded me and took my weapons; then they dug a grave, as it were; and, still later, darkness and raving seized me, and in them the fiery words: “Who worshipped and served the creature more than the Creator!”

I woke a month later in California at the house of Moshynski, a settler. When I had come to health somewhat I set out for Nevada; the prairie had grown over again with grass, and was abundantly green, so that I could not find even her grave, and to this day I know not where her sacred remains are lying. What have I done, O God, that Thou didst turn Thy face from me and forget me in the desert? – I know not. Were it permitted me to weep even one hour at her grave, life would be easier. Every year I go to Nevada, and every year I seek in vain. Since those dreadful hours long years have passed. My wretched lips have uttered more than once, Let Thy will be done! But without her it is hard for me in the world. A man lives and walks among people, and laughs even at times; but the lonely old heart weeps and loves, and yearns and remembers.

I am old, and it is not long till I shall make another journey, the journey to eternity; and for one thing alone I ask God, – that on those celestial plains I may find my heavenly one, and not part from her ever again.