On the 15th of July they started up the shore of the Yellowstone in a cart. The party soon had had enough of buffalo hunting, and on one day the naturalist was nearly speared by a charging bull that had been wounded. "What a terrible destruction of life," he says, "as it were for nothing, or next to it, as the tongues only were brought in, and the flesh of these fine animals was left to beasts and birds of prey, or to rot on the spots where they fell. The prairies are literally covered with the skulls of the victims, and the roads the Buffalo make in crossing the prairies have all the appearance of heavy wagon tracks." Foreseeing the departure of the buffalo, he wrote:
One can hardly conceive how it happens, notwithstanding these many deaths and the immense numbers that are murdered almost daily on these boundless wastes called prairies, besides the hosts that are drowned in the freshets, and the hundreds of young calves who die in early spring, so many are yet to be found. Daily we see so many that we hardly notice them more than the cattle in our pastures about our homes. But this cannot last; even now there is a perceptible difference in the size of the herds, and before many years the Buffalo, like the Great Auk, will have disappeared.
On the 9th of August he added: "I have scarcely done anything but write this day, and my memorandum books are now crowded with sketches, measurements, and descriptions." Those who maintain that a "howling wilderness" is a place that never howls, should read his note for August 19: "Wolves howling, and bulls roaring, just like the long continued roll of a hundred drums"; or this for the 21st: "Buffaloes all over the bars and prairies, and many swimming; the roaring can be heard for miles."
At Fort Union they built a Mackinaw barge forty feet long, which they christened the "Union," and on the 16th of August they started for St. Louis, which was reached in safety on the 19th of October. There they unloaded, and "sent all things to Nicholas Berthoud's warehouse." "Reached home," said Audubon, "at 3 p. m., November 6th, 1843, and thank God, found all my family quite well."
When Audubon was returning by the canal route from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia, he was sought out by a young traveler, who afterwards related the following incident.[194] The naturalist, he was told, was under "a huge pile of green blankets and fur," which he had already noticed on one of the benches, and had taken for the fat pile of some western trader. Having waived his choice of a berth in Audubon's favor, he observed that "the green bale stirred a little,—half turned upon its narrow resting place, and after a while sat erect, and showed us, to our no small surprise, that a man was inside of it. A patriarchal beard fell white and wavy down his breast; a pair of hawk-like eyes glanced sharply out of a fuzzy shroud of cap and collar." When this stranger, drawn by a sense of irrepressible curiosity, had ventured near enough to recognize the "noble Roman countenance" thus obscured, he saw that it was Audubon in his wilderness dress; he was "hale and erect, with sixty winters upon his shoulders, and like one of his old eagles, feathered to the heel." Audubon's conversation, said this writer, was impulsive and fragmentary, but he showed him with pleasure some of his original drawings of animals, as well as a living collection of foxes, badgers and Rocky Mountain deer, which he was bringing home.
To follow this narrator further:
The confinement we were subjected to on board the canal-boat was very tiresome to his habits of freedom. We used to get ashore and walk for hours along the tow-path ahead of the boat; and I observed with astonishment that, though over sixty, he could walk us down with ease.... His physical energies seemed to be entirely unimpaired.... Another striking evidence of this he gave us. A number of us were standing grouped around him on the top of the boat, one clear sunshiny morning; we were at the time passing through a broken and very picturesque region; his keen eyes, with an abstracted, intense expression, peculiar to them, were glancing over the scenery we were gliding through, when suddenly he pointed with his finger towards the fence of a field, about two hundred yards off. "See! Yonder is a Fox Squirrel, running along the top rail. It is not often I have seen them in Pennsylvania." Now his power of vision must have been singularly acute, to have distinguished that it was a Fox Squirrel; for only one other person ... detected the creature at all.
The second Mrs. Victor G. Audubon[195] said that on the day the naturalist returned, "the whole family, with his old friend, Captain Cummings, were on the piazza waiting for the carriage to come from Harlem.... He had on a green blanket coat with fur collar and cuffs; his hair and beard were very long, and he made a fine striking appearance. In this dress his son John painted his portrait."[196] This interesting portrait, which is still in possession of the family, and which is reproduced by his granddaughter in the work from which we have just quoted, shows a man whose apparent age, as suggested by his flowing white hair and grayish white beard, overshoots the clearer testimony of his smooth face and bright eye; as already noticed, Audubon had not then attained his sixtieth year.
Upon his return at this time Audubon is said to have been mistaken for a Dunker, or member of a sect of Quakers noted for their ample beards. On November 29 Bachman wrote: "I am glad to hear that your great beard is now cut off. I pictured you to myself, as I saw you in my home, when you came from Florida, via Savannah. You jumped down from the top of the stage. Your beard, two months old, was as gray as a Badger's. I think a grizzly-bear, forty-seven years old, would have claimed you as 'par nobile fratrum.'" Bachman was apparently disturbed about Audubon's personal habits at this time, for he added in the letter just quoted: "I am a teatotaler. I drink no wine, and do not use snuff. I hope that you are able to say the same."[197]
Spencer Baird wrote to Audubon from Washington, November 24, 1843, to congratulate him upon the safe return of his western party, saying: "From time to time short notices of your whereabouts and doings appeared in the newspaper and a thousand times I wished that the fears of my friends had not prevented me from accompanying you to the scenes of action." Audubon thought that he might well regret the difficulties that had stood in his way; in replying he said that he had seen "not one Rattlesnake and heard not a Word of bilious fever, or [experienced] anything more troublesome than Moschitoes and of these by no means many"; they had brought home a Swift Fox, an American Badger, and a live Deer, which they thought might prove to be new, fifteen new birds, as well as a certain number of quadrupeds, besides "many of the Birds procured on the Western side of the Big Rocky Hills by Nuttall and Townsend." He felt that much still remained to be done, his only regret being that he was not what he "was 25 Years ago, Strong and Active, for willing he was as much as ever."