CHAPTER V.
ON THE ROAD.
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YES! on the road to Europe, but this time, according to an itinerary which is adopted by few only and which can hardly be recommended to travelers who are hardpressed.
“And, still, we are so,” thought Mr. Cascabel to himself, “especially hard pressed for money!”
The start took place in the morning of the 2d of March. At early morn, Vermont and Gladiator were put to the Fair Rambler. Mrs. Cascabel took her place in the wagon with Napoleona, leaving her husband and her two sons to go on foot, whilst Clovy held the reins. As to John Bull, he had perched himself on the railing, and the two dogs were already running ahead.
It was beautiful weather. The new sap of spring swelled the early buds on the shrubs. Nature was beginning to unbosom those charms that she eventually unfolds in such profusion under Californian skies. The birds warbled in the foliage of the evergreen trees, the green oaks, and the white oaks, and the pine-trees whose slender trunks swung to and fro over huge sheaves of heather. Here and there clumps of dwarf chestnut-trees, and here and there one of those apple-trees, the fruit of which, under the name of manzanilla, is used for the making of Indian cider.
Whilst checking the adopted route on his map as he went along, John did not forget that it was his especial duty likewise to supply the kitchen with fresh game. Indeed, in case of need, Marengo would have given him a reminder. A good huntsman and a good dog are made for each other. And they are never in closer sympathy than where there is abundance of game, which was the case in the present instance. Rarely it was that Mrs. Cascabel had not to display her skill on a hare, a crested partridge, a heath-cock, or a few of those mountain quails with pretty little egrets, the sweet-scented flesh of which is such delicate eating. If game proved so plentiful all the way to Behring's Strait, right through the plains of Alaska, our traveling family would have but little expense to incur for their daily food. Beyond that, perhaps, on the continent of Asia, they might not be so well supplied. But they would see about it, when the Fair Rambler had entered the endless steppes of the Tchuktchis.
Everything was therefore going on for the best. Mr. Cascabel was not a man to neglect the favorable circumstances that the weather and the temperature afforded him just then. The utmost speed was made, compatible with the horses' powers of endurance, and every advantage taken of the roads that the summer rains would render impracticable a few months later. This resulted in an average of twenty to twenty-five miles per twenty-four hours, with a halt in the middle of the day for a meal and a rest, and a halt at six in the evening for the night encampment. The country was not as solitary as might be imagined. The field labors of spring-time called out the farmers, to whom this rich and generous soil procures a life of comfort which they would be envied in any other part of the globe. Frequently, besides, they came across farms, hamlets, villages and even towns, especially when the Fair Rambler followed the left bank of the Sacramento, through that region which once was pre-eminently the gold country and still continues to bear the significant name of Eldorado.
In conformity with the programme made out by the leader, the troupe gave performances wherever an opportunity presented itself for the display of its talents. It had not been heard of yet in this part of California; and do you not find everywhere people who ask nothing better than to enjoy themselves? At Placerville, at Auburn, at Marysville, at Tehama, and other more or less important cities, somewhat weary of the ever-recurring American circus which visits them at periodical intervals, the Cascabels received an equal proportion of applause and of cents, the latter mounting up to a few dozen dollars. Napoleona's gracefulness and courage, Sander's extraordinary suppleness, John's marvelous skill as a juggler, not to forget Clovy's drolleries and tricks, were appreciated by good judges as they deserved to be. The very dogs did wonders in company with John Bull. As to Mr. and Mrs. Cascabel, they proved themselves worthy of their fair fame, the former in muscular exercises, the latter in open-hand wrestling encounters in which she brought to the ground such amateurs as ventured to meet her.
By the 12th of March, the Fair Rambler had reached the little town of Shasta, on which the mountain of the same name looks down from a height of fourteen thousand feet. Toward the west could be noticed the ill-defined outline of the Coast Ranges, which, luckily, had not to be crossed to reach the frontier of Oregon. But the country was very hilly; the route lay between the whimsical easterly offshootings of the mountain, and along those scarce-trodden roads the wagon proceeded but slowly. Moreover, the villages were becoming few and far between. Naturally it would have been better to journey along through the territories close to the coast where natural obstacles were less numerous, but these lie on the other side of the Coast Ranges, and the passes of the latter are so to say impracticable. It therefore appeared a wiser plan to travel northward, and only to touch the very edges of the Ranges, at the frontier of Oregon.
Such was the advice given by John, the geographer of the troupe, and it was deemed prudent to adopt it.
On the 19th of March, when Fort Jones had been left behind, the Fair Rambler halted in view of the little town of Yreka. Here, a warm welcome, and not a few dollars. It was the first appearance of a French troupe in this part. Every one to his taste! In those far away districts of America, the children of France excite none but friendly feelings. They are always received with open arms, and a great deal better, most assuredly, than they would be by certain of their European neighbors.
In this locality they were able to hire, at a moderate price, a few horses that proved a help to Vermont and Gladiator. Thus the Fair Rambler was enabled to cross the chain at the foot of its northern extremity, and this time without being pillaged by its drivers.
Although not exempt from obstacles and delays, this part of the journey was accomplished without any accidents, thanks to the measures of precaution that were adopted.
At last, on the 27th of March, at a distance of some three hundred miles from the Sierra Nevada, the Fair Rambler crossed the frontier of the Oregon Territory. The valley was bounded to the east by Mount Pitt, standing up like a style on the surface of a sun-dial.
Horses and men had worked hard. A little rest was needed at Jacksonville. Then the Rogue river having been crossed, the caravan followed a track that meandered as far as the eye could reach along the sea-coast toward the north.
The country was rich, hilly still, and very favorable to agriculture. On all sides, meadows and woods; practically a continuation of the Californian region. Here and there were bands of Shastas and Umpqua Indians, roving about the country. There was nothing to be feared at their hands.
It was at this time that John, who kept on reading the books of travels of his little library,—for he was determined to turn his studies to profit—thought fit to give his people a warning which it was deemed opportune to heed.
They were a few miles to the north of Jacksonville, in the middle of a district covered with immense forests and protected by Fort Lane which stands on a hill at a height of two thousand feet.
“We shall have to be very careful,” said John, “for this country swarms with serpents.”
“Serpents!” screamed Napoleona with affright, “serpents! Let us go away, father!”
“Don't be uneasy, child!” answered Mr. Cascabel. “We shall get on all right, if we only take some precautions.”
“Are those nasty things dangerous?” inquired Cornelia.
“Very dangerous, mother,” replied John. “They are rattlesnakes, the most dangerous of serpents. If you avoid them, they do not attack you; but if you touch them, if you knock against them unintentionally, they stand up, swoop down on you and bite you; and their bites are almost always fatal.”
“Where do they lie?” asked Sander.
“Under dry leaves where they are not easily noticed,” replied John. “Still, as they make a rattling sound by shaking the rings on their tail, you have time to avoid them.”
“If so, then,” said Mr. Cascabel, “let us mind our p's and q's (the serpent's q's, of course) and keep our ears open!”
John had been quite right to draw attention to this fact; serpents were very numerous in Western America. Not alone did the Crotalidæ abound, but the Tarentulæ likewise, the latter almost as dangerous as the former.
Needless to add that the utmost caution was used, and each one looked on the ground as he walked. There was an eye to be kept, moreover, to the horses and the other animals of the troupe, no less exposed than their masters to the attacks of the insects and the reptiles.
Besides, John had thought it his duty to add that these dreaded snakes had a deplorable habit of creeping their way into houses, and, doubtless, were equally disrespectful of carriages. A possibility of their paying an unpleasant visit to the Fair Rambler was therefore to be feared.
And so, when the evening had come, how carefully they looked under the beds, under the furniture, in every nook and corner! And what screams Napoleona would utter when she fancied she saw one of those ugly reptiles and mistook some coil of rope or other for a crotalus, deprived though it was of a triangular head! And the fits of terror she had when, in semi-wakefulness, she imagined she heard the noise of a rattle at the other end of the compartment! It must be said that Cornelia was hardly braver than her daughter.
“Look here,” exclaimed her husband, losing patience one day, “the devil take both the snakes that frighten the women, and the women that are afraid of snakes! Mother Eve was not such a coward, and many a chat she had with them!”
“Oh!—that was in the earthly paradise!” said the little girl.
“And that was not the best thing she ever did, either!” added Mrs. Cascabel.
This state of things kept Clovy busy every night. At first, he had hit upon the plan of lighting large fires, for which the forest supplied the necessary fuel; but John suggested to him that if the light of the fire was able to keep the serpents away, it was likely to attract the tarentulæ.
On the whole, our travelers felt really easy in their minds only in the villages where now and then the Fair Rambler halted to spend a night; there, danger was infinitely less.
Nor were these villages very far apart from each other; witness Cannonville on the Cow Creek, Roseburg, Rochester, Yoculla where Mr. Cascabel pocketed more dollars. All things considered, as he earned more than he spent, the prairies supplying him with grass for his horses, the forest with game for his kitchen, the streams with fish for his table, the journey really cost nothing. And the produce of the performances kept on heaping up. But, alas! how far they were from the two thousand dollars, stolen in the Sierra Nevada Pass!
However, if the little troupe eventually escaped the bites of the snakes and of the tarentulæ, they were to be visited in a different way. And it happened just a few days later; so numerous and manifold are the means devised by nature to test the patience of poor mortals here below!
The wagon, ever rumbling up through the Oregon district, had just passed Eugene City. This name had proved a source of genuine pleasure, pointing out, as it did, the French origin of the settlement. Mr. Cascabel would have been glad to know that countryman of his, that Eugene who was doubtless one of the founders of the said town. He must have been a worthy man, and, if his name does not appear among the modern names of French kings, the Charles, the Louis, the Francis, the Henrys, the Philippes,—and the Napoleons, it is French none the less, thoroughly French!
After a halt in the towns of Harrisburg, Albany and Jefferson, the Fair Rambler “dropped anchor” before Salem, a rather important city, the capital of Oregon, built on one of the banks of the Villamette.
It was the 3d of April.
There, Mr. Cascabel allowed twenty-four hours' rest to his staff,—at least in so far as they were travelers; for the public square of the town was turned to advantage by the artists, and a round sum rewarded their exertions.
During their leisure moments John and Sander, hearing that the river was looked upon as abounding in fish, had gone and enjoyed the pleasure of angling.
But, the following night, behold father, mother, children all suffering such tortures, from a feeling of itching right over the body, as to suggest the possibility of their being the victims of one of those old practical jokes still played at country weddings.
And great was their wonderment, on the next morning, when they looked at each other!
“Why, I am as red as a Far West Indian!” exclaimed Cornelia.
“And I am swelled out like a gold beater's skin,” cried Napoleona.
“And I am one mass of blisters from head to foot!” said Clovy.
“What does it all mean?” asked Mr. Cascabel. “Have they got the plague in these parts?”
“I think I know what it is,” answered John, as he examined his arms, speckled with reddish spots.
“What?”
“We have caught the yedra, as it is called here.”
“The devil take your yedra! Come, John, will you tell us the meaning of it?”
“The yedra, father, is a plant which you have only to smell, to touch, or even, so they say, to look at, to suffer from its evil power. It poisons you at a distance.”
“How is that? We are poisoned,” asked Mrs. Cascabel, “poisoned!”
“Don't be afraid, mother,” John hastened to reply. “We shall get over it with a little itching and perhaps a little fever: that will be all.”
The explanation was the correct one. This yedra is a dangerous, an extremely venomous plant. When the wind is loaded with the almost impalpable pollen of this shrub, if the skin be but touched by it, it reddens, gets covered with pimples, and becomes marbled with blotches. Probably, while crossing the woods in the neighborhood of Salem, Mr. Cascabel and his people had happened to be in a current of yedra. On the whole, the pustular eruption they suffered from hardly lasted twenty-four hours, during which time, it is true, there was such general scratching and rubbing as to excite the jealousy of John Bull, on whose favorite and continual occupation, this seemed an encroachment on the part of mankind.
On the 5th of April, the Fair Rambler left Salem, bringing away a very lively remembrance of the few hours spent in the forests of the Villamette,—a pretty name for a river, for all that, and one with a pleasant sound for French ears.
By the 7th of April, after calling at Fairfield, at Clackamas, Oregon City, Portland, towns already grown into importance, the troupe reached without any other accident, the banks of the Columbia River, on the frontier of that state of Oregon, three hundred and fifty miles of which they had just traveled over.
To the north stretched out Washington Territory.
It is mountainous in that portion lying east of the route followed by the Fair Rambler in its endeavors to reach Behring Strait. Here are developed the ramifications of the Cascade Ranges, with peaks such as St. Helens, nine thousand seven hundred feet in height, those of Mt. Baker and Mt. Rainier eleven thousand feet high. It seems as though nature, having spent herself in endless plains ever since she left the coast of the Atlantic, had preserved all her upheaving power to throw up the mountains with which the west of the new continent bristles. If we were to look upon these countries as a sea, we might say that this sea, still, unruffled, almost asleep on the one side, is stormy and angry on the other, and that the crests of its waves are mountain peaks.
This was John's remark, and the father was greatly pleased with the comparison.
“That's right, that's quite right!” he answered. “After the sun comes the storm! Pshaw, our Fair Rambler is not weak about the knees! She'll weather the storm, she will! All sails up, lads, all sails up!”
And the sails were set, and the Rambler continued her cruise through these billowy regions. In truth,—to keep up the simile,—the sea was beginning to calm down, and, thanks to the exertions of the crew, the fair ship of the Cascabels pulled through the worst passes unhurt. If, at times, speed had to be slackened, they succeeded, at least, in avoiding the reefs.
Then, a warm and sympathetic welcome always awaited them in the little townships, at Kalama, at Monticello, as well as at the forts, which are, strictly speaking, nothing else but military stations. In vain would you look for ramparts there, a paling at most; still the little garrisons occupying these posts are sufficient to keep in due awe the wandering Indians who roam about through the country.
That is why the Fair Rambler was threatened neither by the Chinooks nor by the Nesquallys when it ventured into the Walla-Walla country. When the shades of evening fell and these Indians collected around the encampment, they never showed any evil disposition. By far the greatest source of surprise for them was John Bull, whose ludicrous faces excited their laughter. They had never seen an ape, and doubtless they took this one for one of the members of the family.
“Why, of course! He is a little brother of mine!” Sander would say to them, in spite of Mrs. Cascabel's most indignant protestations.
At last they arrived in Olympia, the capital town of Washington Territory, and there “by general desire” was given the last performance of the French troupe in the United States. Now, the road would lie along the coast of the Pacific, or rather those numerous sounds, those capricious and manifold straits sheltered by the large islands of Vancouver and Queen Charlotte.
After a call at Steilacoom, they had to wind round Puget Sound, in order to reach Fort Bellingham, situated near the strait which separates the islands from the mainland.
Then came Whatcom station, with Mt. Baker pointing upward through the clouds at the horizon, and Simiamoo station, at the mouth of Georgia Strait.
At length, on the 27th of April, after a trip of over a thousand miles from Sacramento, the Fair Rambler reached the frontier line which was adopted by the 1847 treaty and still marks the limit of British Columbia.