Now our troubles commenced. Seated in Mexican saddles, and
mounted on raw-boned mustangs, whose energy had been a good deal impaired by a
month's steady travelling on bad food, M'Carthy and I left the hospitable
mess-tent about midnight, and started in search of Mr Sargent and his vehicle.
We were under the guidance of two Texan rangers.
About daylight we hove in sight of “Los Animos,” a desolate
farmhouse, in the neighbourhood of which Mr Sargent was supposed to be
encamped; but nowhere could we find any traces of him.
We had now reached the confines of a dreary region, sixty
miles in extent, called “The Sands,” in comparison with which the prairie and
chaparal were luxurious.
The sand being deep and the wind high, we could not trace
the carriage; but we soon acquired a certainty that our perfidious Jehu had
decamped, leaving us behind.
We floundered about in the sand, cursing our bad luck,
cursing Mr Sargent, and even the good Magruder, as the indirect cause of our
wretchedness. Our situation, indeed, was sufficiently deplorable. We were
without food or water in the midst of a desert: so were our horses, which were
nearly done up. Our bones ached from the Mexican saddles; and, to complete our
misery, the two rangers began to turn restive and talk of returning with the
horses. At this, the climax of our misfortunes, I luckily hit upon a Mexican,
who gave us intelligence of our carriage; and with renewed spirits, but very
groggy horses, we gave chase.
But never did Mr Sargent's mules walk at such a pace; and it
was 9 A.M. before we overtook them. My animal had been twice on his head, and
M'Carthy was green in the face with fatigue and rage. Mr Sargent received us
with the greatest affability; and we were sensible enough not to quarrel with
him, although M'Carthy had made many allusions as to the advisability of
shooting him.
We had been nine and a half hours in the saddle, and were a
good deal exhausted. Our sulky Texan guides were appeased with bacon, coffee,
and $5 in coin.
We halted till 2 P.M., and then renewed our struggle through
the deep sandy wilderness; but though the services of the Judge's horse were
put into requisition, we couldn't progress faster than two miles an hour.
Mule-driving is an art of itself, and Mr Sargent is justly
considered a professor at it.
He is always yelling — generally imprecations of a
serio-comic character. He rarely flogs his mules; but when one of them rouses
his indignation by extraordinary laziness, he roars out, “Come here, Judge,
with a big club, and give him h—11.” Whilst the animal is receiving such
discipline as comes up to the judge's idea of the infernal regions, Mr Sargent
generally remarks, “I wish you was Uncle Abe, I'd make you move, you G—d d—n
son of a ——.” His idea of perfect happiness seems to be to have Messrs Lincoln
and Seward in the shafts. Mules travel much better when other mules are in
front of them; and another dodge to which Mr Sargent continually resorts is, to
beat the top of the carriage and kick the foot-board, which makes a noise, and
gratifies the mules quite as much as licking them. Mr Sargent accounts for his
humanity by saying, “It's the worst plan in the world licking niggers or mules,
because the more you licks ‘em, the more they wants it.”
We reached or “struck” water at 5.30 P.M.; but, in spite of
its good reputation, it was so salt as to be scarcely drinkable. A number of
cotton waggons, and three carriages belonging to Mr Ward, were also encamped
with us.
We have only made sixteen miles to-day.
SOURCE: Sir Arthur James Lyon Fremantle, Three
months in the southern states: April-June, 1863, p. 33-6
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