an even broader and more swollen flow, the Missouri. The two freelance writers had had their fill of the west. They were off to points east, maybe all the way to China — wherever they might find an adventurous story to sell. Rafting the Platte would be a much quicker and easier method of crossing America’s Great Plains, their first major geographical barrier, than walking.
‘Stanley’, Cook noted, ‘is short and quick and not easy to forget an enemy, but he is also firm and true as a friend.’ Stanley was thick around the middle but otherwise muscular. He wore his moustache neatly trimmed and his hair combed straight back. His accent was a curious composition of a Louisiana drawl and a singsong lilt that overtook him when he became excited. He was fond of tall tales, but there was just enough truth in his stories to make them entirely believable. He was tight with a dollar and a prodigious saver, yet was always telling new acquaintances about one lavish scheme or another: gold mining in Alaska, grand adventures in Asia Minor, going to New York to become a real newspaper writer. Like his tall tales, there was just enough truth andambition behind Stanley’s schemes to make people believe he meant to accomplish them.
Key pieces of Stanley’s character had been shaped in recent years. The Civil War, of all things, had been a positive experience for him. He had begun the war as a dry-goods salesman in an Arkansas backwater and come out of the war physically and emotionally equipped for a life of adventure. He had seen combat. He had become an expert marksman. He had endured the blisters, exhaustion and muscle pain of forced marches and seen first-hand the logistics of moving men and material over great distances, rapidly.
Stanley learned something else in the war — that he had a way with the written word. While serving as a clerk in the Union Navy he began writing newspaper stories on the side, detailing his battle experiences. He also began expressing his thoughts in a journal, revealing both surprising depth and moments of great melancholy.
When the war ended Stanley joined the scores of Civil War vets who were travelling into the American West to make their fortune. He made his way to the California gold fields and then to Colorado’s silver mines, selling the odd freelance story to the Missouri Democrat about life on the authentic frontier. For the most part, however, Stanley was a drifter. In January 1866, frustrated with shovelling quartz in the Black Hawk City smelting works, Stanley moved two miles west to Central City and found employment as an apprentice printer with the town newspaper. The Miner’s Daily Register wasn’t glamorous (he had to moonlight by prospecting for gold to make ends meet) but it was regular work. After four months, however, Central City became tedious and Stanley hatched his plan to travel to New York then Asia Minor to assemble stories for a proposed book. With Cook, Stanley began his journey by taking the stagecoach from Central City into Denver, and it was there that they built their raft.
On 6 May, the two men carefully dragged it down the banks of the South Platte and scampered aboard. Stanley carried a pistol and rifle to hunt game for dinner, and eachman had a bedroll, but otherwise their gear and provisions were minimal. They poled the raft into the swift, swirling current. The river carried them through Colorado towards Nebraska.
Stanley and Cook kept a sharp eye for Indians along the banks at all times. The Cheyenne and Pawnee were ostensibly peaceful, but rogue bands of braves still attacked travellers. The American Indians had had their lands to themselves until European powers and their colonial offspring grew interested in the vast region’s commercial possibilities. Everything west of the Missouri River had been a blank spot on the map a mere sixty years earlier, when Lewis and Clark marched westwards for a definitive reconnaissance in 1804. The Indians were
‘Stanley’, Cook noted, ‘is short and quick and not easy to forget an enemy, but he is also firm and true as a friend.’ Stanley was thick around the middle but otherwise muscular. He wore his moustache neatly trimmed and his hair combed straight back. His accent was a curious composition of a Louisiana drawl and a singsong lilt that overtook him when he became excited. He was fond of tall tales, but there was just enough truth in his stories to make them entirely believable. He was tight with a dollar and a prodigious saver, yet was always telling new acquaintances about one lavish scheme or another: gold mining in Alaska, grand adventures in Asia Minor, going to New York to become a real newspaper writer. Like his tall tales, there was just enough truth andambition behind Stanley’s schemes to make people believe he meant to accomplish them.
Key pieces of Stanley’s character had been shaped in recent years. The Civil War, of all things, had been a positive experience for him. He had begun the war as a dry-goods salesman in an Arkansas backwater and come out of the war physically and emotionally equipped for a life of adventure. He had seen combat. He had become an expert marksman. He had endured the blisters, exhaustion and muscle pain of forced marches and seen first-hand the logistics of moving men and material over great distances, rapidly.
Stanley learned something else in the war — that he had a way with the written word. While serving as a clerk in the Union Navy he began writing newspaper stories on the side, detailing his battle experiences. He also began expressing his thoughts in a journal, revealing both surprising depth and moments of great melancholy.
When the war ended Stanley joined the scores of Civil War vets who were travelling into the American West to make their fortune. He made his way to the California gold fields and then to Colorado’s silver mines, selling the odd freelance story to the Missouri Democrat about life on the authentic frontier. For the most part, however, Stanley was a drifter. In January 1866, frustrated with shovelling quartz in the Black Hawk City smelting works, Stanley moved two miles west to Central City and found employment as an apprentice printer with the town newspaper. The Miner’s Daily Register wasn’t glamorous (he had to moonlight by prospecting for gold to make ends meet) but it was regular work. After four months, however, Central City became tedious and Stanley hatched his plan to travel to New York then Asia Minor to assemble stories for a proposed book. With Cook, Stanley began his journey by taking the stagecoach from Central City into Denver, and it was there that they built their raft.
On 6 May, the two men carefully dragged it down the banks of the South Platte and scampered aboard. Stanley carried a pistol and rifle to hunt game for dinner, and eachman had a bedroll, but otherwise their gear and provisions were minimal. They poled the raft into the swift, swirling current. The river carried them through Colorado towards Nebraska.
Stanley and Cook kept a sharp eye for Indians along the banks at all times. The Cheyenne and Pawnee were ostensibly peaceful, but rogue bands of braves still attacked travellers. The American Indians had had their lands to themselves until European powers and their colonial offspring grew interested in the vast region’s commercial possibilities. Everything west of the Missouri River had been a blank spot on the map a mere sixty years earlier, when Lewis and Clark marched westwards for a definitive reconnaissance in 1804. The Indians were
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