Meade and I frequently congratulated ourselves about our safety in that dug-out: we knew that nothing short of an earthquake could upset our dwelling. No tents could stand against that heavy wind and downpour.
It was dark and dismal enough, surely, but often when we had a bright fire roaring in its corner, the lamp alight, the door tightly closed, and we were lying reading, with Patch curled up between us, we said to each other how thankful we ought to be, and were, I hope, for such comfort in that wild land.
It was during this enforced companionship that my friend opened his mind very freely to me. I don't know if he had any presentiment then of what the end would be—any premonition of still greater trouble ahead. It is impossible to be certain of this, but I have since thought that he had.
He had a very lovable disposition, even when he was well, and had had to fight with me against wilderness troubles which upset and spoil the temper of most men. When things went wrong ashore or afloat, when our Indians were stupid, when the fates seemed to be dead against us and all appeared to be going wrong, I never remember him becoming really angry, using bad language, or showing anything but the most perfect amiability.
Many will think it is impossible to go through the rough countries of this world, especially such a wilderness as we had traversed, and were then in, or to subdue others' wills to ours, without showing a masterful, a domineering spirit. I thought so, and began, when he and I started on this expedition, to assert myself, believing that only thus would we be able to hold our own, or make headway.
Meade, on the contrary, from the first was amiable, friendly, and polite with all—red men and white. I thought this, for a while, unmanly, and feared I should thereby have my hands full of trouble, but I soon found I was much mistaken.
I noticed on board the steamer going up to Juneau, and at Skagway, that the people looked astonished, for a little, at the way in which my friend spoke, his gentleness and consideration to all—never shouting his desires or orders, but asking politely for what he required. Yes, they looked surprised at his uncommon style, for a bit, but were invariably impressed by it; and thinking that he must be a prince, or at least a duke (that was the usual idea), they treated him, as far as they knew, with the same consideration with which he treated them.
And I, as his mate, his friend, came in for the benefit of it.
So, mild and amiable as Meade had been all along, during this sad time he was, if possible, more so. He suffered intensely, I know it now, though at that time I scarcely understood it. Often he could hardly speak for pain and weakness, yet he never neglected to thank me for the slightest thing I did for him, and he never expressed impatience at his sad condition.
Well, that is hardly true; he did frequently bemoan his fate in having brought me to such a pass—that was a great trouble to him.