Chapter Eleven.
Musquitoes and their Antidote.
Our next day’s journey brought us again into heavy timber—another creek bottom. The soil was rich and loamy, and the road we travelled was moist, and in some places very heavy for our waggon. Several times the latter got stalled in the mud, and then the whole party were obliged to dismount, and put their shoulders to the wheel. Our progress was marked by some noise and confusion, and the constant din made by Jake talking to his team, his loud sonorous “woha!” as they were obliged to halt, and the lively “gee-up—gee-up” as they moved on again—frighted any game long before we could come up with it. Of course we were compelled to keep by the waggon until we had made the passage of the miry flat.
We were dreadfully annoyed by the mosquitoes, particularly the doctor, of whose blood they seemed to be especially fond! This is a curious fact in relation to the mosquitoes—of two persons sleeping in the same apartment, one will sometimes be bitten or rather punctured, and half bled to death, while the other remains untouched! Is it the quality of the blood or the thickness of the skin that guides to this preference?
This point was discussed amongst us—the doctor taking the view that it was always a sign of good blood when one was more than usually subject to the attack of mosquitoes. He was himself an apt illustration of the fact. This statement of course produced a general laugh, and some remarks at the doctor’s expense, on the part of the opponents of his theory. Strange to say, old Ike was fiercely assailed by the little blood-suckers. This seemed to be an argument against the doctor’s theory, for in the tough skinny carcass of the old trapper, the blood could neither have been very plenteous nor delicate.
Most of us smoked as we rode along, hoping by that means to drive off the ferocious swarm, but although tobacco smoke is disagreeable to the mosquitoes, they cannot be wholly got rid of by a pipe or cigar. Could one keep a constant nimbus of the smoke around his face it might be effective, but not otherwise. A sufficient quantity of tobacco smoke will kill mosquitoes outright, as I have more than once proved by a thorough fumigation of my sleeping apartment.
These insects are not peculiar, as sometimes supposed, to the inter-tropical regions of America. They are found in great numbers even to the shores of the Arctic Sea, and as fierce and bloodthirsty as anywhere else—of course only in the summer season, when, as before remarked, the thermometer in these Northern latitudes mounts to a high figure. Their haunts are the banks of rivers, and particularly those of a stagnant and muddy character.
There is another singular fact in regard to them. Upon the banks of some of the South-American rivers, life is almost unendurable on account of this pest—the “plaga de mosquitos,” as the Spaniards term it—while upon other streams in the very same latitude musquitoes are unknown. These streams are what are termed “rios negros,” or black-water rivers—a peculiar class of rivers, to which many tributaries of the Amazon and Orinoco belong.
Our English comrade, who had travelled all over South America, gave us this information as we rode along. He stated, that he had often considered it a great relief, a sort of escape from purgatory, while on his travels he parted from one of the yellow or white water streams, to enter one of the “rios negros.” Many Indian tribes settled upon the banks of the latter solely to get clear of the “plaga de mosquitos.” The Indians who reside in the mosquito districts habitually paint their bodies, and smear themselves with oil, as a protection against their bites; and it is a common thing among the natives, when speaking of any place, to inquire into the “character” of its mosquitoes!
On some tributaries of the Amazon the mosquitoes are really a life torment, and the wretched creatures who inhabit such places frequently bury their bodies in the sand in order to get sleep! Even the pigments with which they anoint themselves are pierced by the poisoned bills of their tormentors.
Besançon and the Kentuckian both denied that any species of ointment would serve as a protection against mosquitoes. The doctor joined them in their denial. They asserted that they had tried everything that could be thought of—camphor, ether, hartshorn, spirits of turpentine, etcetera.
Some of us were of a different opinion, and Ike settled the point soon after in favour of the dissentients by a practical illustration. The old trapper, as before stated, was a victim to the fiercest attacks, as was manifested by the slapping which he repeatedly administered to his cheeks, and an almost constant muttering of bitter imprecations. He knew a remedy he said in a “sartint weed,” if he could only “lay his claws upon it.” We noticed that from time to time as he rode along his eyes swept the ground in every direction. At length a joyous exclamation told that he had discovered the “weed.”
“Thur’s the darned thing at last,” muttered he, as he flung himself to the ground, and commenced gathering the stalks of a small herb that grew plentifully about. It was an annual, with leaves very much of the size and shape of young garden box-wood, but of a much brighter green. Of course we all knew well enough what it was, for there is not a village “common” in the Western United States that is not covered with it. It was the well-known “penny-royal” (Hedcoma pulegioides), not the English herb of that name, which is a species of mentha.
Redwood also leaped from his horse, and set to plucking the “weed.” He too, from experience, knew its virtues.
We all drew bridle, watching the guides. Both operated in a similar manner. Having collected a handful of the tenderest tops, they rubbed them violently between their palms—rough and good for such service—and then passed the latter over the exposed skin of their necks and laces. Ike took two small bunches of the stalks, crushed them under his heel, and then stuck them beneath his cap, so that the ends hung down over his cheeks. This being done, he and his comrade mounted their horses and rode on.
Some of us—the hunter-naturalist, the Englishman, and myself—dismounted and imitated Ike—of course under a volley of laughter and “pooh-poohs” from Besançon, the Kentuckian, and the doctor; but we had not ridden two hundred paces until the joke changed sides. From that moment not a mosquito approached us, while our three friends were bitten as badly as ever.
In the end they were convinced, and the torment of the mosquitoes proving stronger than the fear of our ridicule, all three sprang out of their saddles, and made a rush at the next bed of penny-royal that came in sight.
Whether it is the highly aromatic odour of the penny-royal that keeps off these insects, or whether the juice when touched by them burns the delicate nerves of their feet I am unable to say. Certain it is they will not alight upon the skin which has been plentifully anointed with it. I have tried the same experiment often since that time with a similar result, and in fact have never since travelled through a mosquito country without a provision of the “essence of penny-royal.” This is better than the herb itself, and can be obtained from any apothecary. A single drop or two spilled in the palm of the hand is sufficient to rub over all the parts exposed, and will often ensure sleep, where otherwise such a thing would be impossible. I have often lain with my face so smeared, and listened to the sharp hum of the mosquito as it approached, fancying that the next moment I should feel its tiny touch, as it settled down upon my cheek, or brow. As soon, however, as it came within the influence of the penny-royal I could hear it suddenly tack round and wing its way off again, until its disagreeable “music” was no longer heard.
The only drawback in the use of the penny-royal lies in the burning sensation which the fluid produces upon the skin; and this in a climate where the thermometer is pointing to 90 degrees is no slight disqualification of the remedy. The use of it is sometimes little better than “Hobbson’s choice.”
The application of it on the occasion mentioned restored the spirits of our party, which had been somewhat kept under by the continuous attacks of the mosquitoes, and a lively little incident that occurred soon after, viz. the hunt and capture of a raccoon, made us all quite merry.
Cooney, though a night prowler, is sometimes abroad during the day, but especially in situations where the timber is high, and the woods dark and gloomy. On the march we had come so suddenly upon this one, that he had not time to strike out for his own tree, where he would soon have hidden from us in its deep cavity. He had been too busy with his own affairs—the nest of a wild turkey upon the ground, under some brush and leaves, the broken eggs in which told of the delicious meal he had made. Taken by surprise—for the guides had ridden nearly on top of him—he galloped up the nearest tree, which fortunately contained neither fork nor cavity in which he could shelter himself; and a well-directed shot from Redwood’s rifle brought him with a heavy “thump” back to the ground again.
We were all stirred up a little by this incident; in fact, the unusual absence of game rendered ever so trifling an occurrence an “event” with us. No one, however, was so pleased as the black waggoner Jake, whose eyes fairly danced in his head at the sight of a “coon.” The “coon” to Jake was well-known game—natural and legitimate—and Jake preferred “roast coon” to fried bacon at any time. Jake knew that none of us would care to eat of his coonship. He was therefore sure of his supper; and the “varmint” was carefully deposited in the corner of the waggon.
Jake did not have it all to himself. The trappers liked fresh meat too, even “coon-meat;” and of course claimed their share. None of the rest of the party had any relish for such a fox-like carcass.
After supper, cooney was honoured with a description, and for many of the facts of his history we are indebted to Jake himself.