The pioneer West : $b Narratives of the westward march of empire
History
The pioneer West : $b Narratives of the westward march of empire
Frontier and pioneer life -- West (U.S.)
As we neared Gorgona, our men began repeating the ominous words:
“_Cruces--mucha colera_.” We had, in fact, already heard of the
prevalence of cholera there, but doubted, none the less, their wish
to shorten the journey. On climbing the bank to the village, I called
immediately at the store of Mr. Miller, the only American resident,
who informed me that several passengers by the Falcon had already
left for Panama, the route being reported passable. In the door of
the alcalde’s house, near at hand, I met Mr. Powers, who had left New
York a short time previous to my departure, and was about starting for
Panama on foot, mules being very scarce. While we were deliberating
whether to go on to Cruces, Ambrosio beckoned me into an adjoining hut.
The owner, a very venerable and dignified native, received me swinging
in his hammock. He had six horses which he would furnish us the next
morning, at $10 the head for riding animals, and $6 for each 100 lbs.
of freight. The bargain was instantly concluded.
As we were leaving Gorgona, our party was joined by a long
Mississippian, whose face struck me at the first glance as being
peculiarly cadaverous. He attached himself to us without the least
ceremony, leaving his own party behind. We had not ridden far before
he told us he had felt symptoms of cholera during the night, and was
growing worse. We insisted on his returning to Gorgona at once, but
he refused, saying he was “bound to go through.” At the first ranche
on the road we found another traveler, lying on the ground in a state
of entire prostration. He was attended by a friend, who seemed on the
point of taking the epidemic, from his very fears. The sight of this
case no doubt operated on the Mississippian, for he soon became so
racked with pain as to keep his seat with great difficulty. We were
alarmed; it was impossible to stop in the swampy forest, and equally
impossible to leave him, now that all his dependence was on us. The
only thing resembling medicine in our possession, was a bottle of
claret. It was an unusual remedy for cholera, but he insisted on
drinking it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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