Part 12

Soap is made by keeping fat constantly simmering in lye of ashes (see preceding paragraphs) for some days; adding fresh lye as fast as the water boils away, or is sucked up by the fat. After one or two trials, the knack of soap-making is easily caught. The presence of salt makes the soap hard; its absence, soft; now many ashes contain a good deal of salt, and these may make the soap too hard, and will have to be mixed with other sorts of ashes before being used: experience must guide the traveller in this. A native woman will be probably be found without difficulty, who will attend night and day to the pot-boiling for a small payment. Inferior soap may be made by simply putting some grease into a tub of very strong lye, and letting it remain for two or three weeks, without any boiling, but stirring it every day.

Marine Soap is made of soda lye (the lye of seaweeds) and cocoa-nut oil; it makes a lather with salt water, but it has the defect of being very bulky.

To wash Flannels.--Make a lather of soap on a small piece of flannel, and rub with it those parts that require the most cleansing, such as the neck and wristbands of a shirt; then plunge the shirt in water as hot as you can bear it, rinsing it and wringing it out very thoroughly, and hang it up to dry as quickly as possible. Soda should not be used with coloured flannels.

Washing Oneself.--Warmth of Dirt.--There is no denying the fact, though it be not agreeable to confess it, that dirt and grease are great protectors of the skin against inclement weather, and that therefore the leader of a party should not be too exacting about the appearance of his less warmly-clad followers. Daily washing, if not followed by oiling, must be compensated by wearing clothes. Take the instance of a dog. He will sleep out under any bush, and thrive there, so long as he is not washed, groomed, and kept clean; but if he be, he must have a kennel to lie in, the same is the case with a horse; he catches cold if he is groomed in the day, and turned out at nights; but he never catches cold when left wholly to himself. A savage will never wash unless he can grease himself afterwards--grease takes the place of clothing to him. There must be a balance between the activity of the skin and the calls upon it; and where the exposure is greater, there must the pores be more defended. In Europe, we pass our lives in a strangely artificial state; our whole body swathed in many folds of dress, excepting the hands and face--the first of which are frequently gloved. We can afford to wash, but naked men cannot.

Best Times for Washing.--The most convenient time for a traveller to make his toilet, in rough travel, is after the early morning's ride, a bath being now and then taken in the afternoon. It is trying work to wash in ice-cold water, in the dark and blowing morning; besides which, when the sun rises up, its scorching heat tells severely on a face that has been washed.

Toilet made overnight.--During the harassing duties of active warfare, officers who aim at appearing in a decorous dress, in whatever emergency their presence may be required, make their toilet overnight before going to sleep.

Economising Water in Washing.--Where water has to be economised, by far the best way of using it is after the Mahomedan fashion. An attendant pours a slender stream from a jug, which the man who washes himself receives in his hands and distributes over his person.

Bath-glove.--Fold a piece of very coarse towel in two parts: lay your hand upon it, and mark its outline rudely; then guided by the outline, cut it out: sew the two pieces together, along their edges, and the glove is made. It is inexpensive, and portable, and as good a detergent as horsehair gloves or flesh-brushes.

Brushes.--It is well to know how to make a brush, whether for clothes, boots, or hair, and the accompanying section of one will explain itself. Bristles are usually employed, but fibres of various kinds may be used.

[Sketch of brush].

BEDDING.

General Remarks.--The most bulky, and often the heaviest, parts of a traveller's equipment are his clothes, sleeping-mat, and blankets: nor is it at all desirable that these should be stinted in quantity; for the hardship that most tries a man's constitution and lays the seeds of rheumatism, dysentery, and fever, is that of enduring the bitter cold of a stormy night, which may happen to follow an exhausting day of extreme heat or drenching wet. After many months' travel and camping, the constitution becomes far less susceptible of injury from cold and damp, but in no case is it ever proof against their influence. Indeed, the oldest travellers are ever those who go the most systematically to work, in making their sleeping-places dry and warm. Unless a traveller makes himself at home and comfortable in the bush, he will never be quite contented with his lot; but will fall into the bad habit of looking forwards to the end of his journey, and to his return to civilisation, instead of complacently interesting himself in its continuance. This is a frame of mind in which few great journeys have been successfully accomplished; and an explorer who cannot divest himself of it, may suspect that he has mistaken his vocation.

It is a common idea among men who are preparing to travel for the first time, that all the bed-clothing about which they need concern themselves, is a sufficiency to cover them, forgetting that a man has an under as well as an upper side to keep warm, and must therefore have clothing between him and the earth, as well as between him and the air. Indeed, on trying the experiment, and rolling oneself up in a single blanket, the undermost side in a cold night is found to be by far the colder of the two. The substance of the blanket is compressed by the weight of the sleeper; the interstices between its fibres cease to exist; and the air which they contained and which is a powerful non-conductor of heat, is squeezed out. Consequently wherever the blanket is compressed, its power of retaining the heat of the sleeper is diminished. Soft fleecy substances, like eider-down quilts, which are extremely warm as coverlets, are well-nigh useless as mattresses. There is another cause why a sleeper requires more protection from below, than from above: it is that if the ground be at all wet, its damp will penetrate through very thick substances laid upon it. It will therefore be clearly understood that the object of a mattress is not alone to give softness to the bed, but also to give warmth; and that if a man lies in a hammock, with only the hammock below, and blankets above, he will be fully as much chilled as if the arrangement had been reversed, and he had lain upon blankets, with only the hammock as a sheet to cover him.

Vital Heat.--The vital heat of a man, either in an active or a latent form, is equal to that which is given out by two ordinary candles: I judge so from the following reasons. All our vital heat is produced by the combustion--for it is simple combustion--of the carbon in our food. Now the quantity of carbon consumed by a man in full diet, in 24 hours, is about 22 oz. in weight. On the other hand, I find that ordinary candles, which mainly consist of carbon, burn at the rate of 11 oz. in 24 hours. Therefore the heat given out by two candles is just about the same as that given out by one man, either in a sensible form, or else under a latent form by the vapour of the breath. Secondly, I have frequently heard it estimated, as the result of the ordinary experience of social life, that a saloon is warmed by each couple of candles somewhat more than it is by the presence of a single guest. Where I write these lines, I have not an opportunity of verifying my rough estimate, by reference to physiological works, but accuracy is of little consequence to my present purpose, which is to give a general idea of the magnitude of the problem to be solved by clothes and tenting. Their joint office is to retain the heat of a mass of flesh and blood, the size and shape of a man, warmed by two candles burning within it, at a temperature of not less than 96 degrees in its inward parts.

Mattresses and their Substitutes.--A Strip of Macintosh.--If a traveller can do so, he should make a point of having a strip of macintosh sheeting 7 feet by 4, certainly not less than 6 feet by 3, to lay on the ground below his bedding. Every white servant in the expedition ought to be furnished with a strip of macintosh sheeting, or, failing that, with a strip of painted canvas. However, painted cloth is much inferior to macintosh, as it will not fold up without cracking: it also tears easily, and is heavy. Macintosh, of the sort that suits all climates, and made of linen, not of silk, is invaluable to an explorer, whether in the form of sheeting, coats, water-bags. swimming belts, or inflatable boats. A little box full of the composition for mending it, and a spare bit of macintosh, should always be taken.

Mattress.--Making a mattress is indeed a very simple affair. A bag of canvas, or other cloth, is made of the size wanted. It is then stuffed full of hair, wool, dry leaves, or cotton, and a strong stitch is put through it every few inches. The use of the stitching is to prevent the stuffing from being displaced, and forming lumps in different parts of the bag.

Palliasse.--Straw, well knitted or plaited together, forms a good mattress, commonly called a palliasse.

Shavings of Wood.--Eight pounds' weight of shavings make an excellent bed, and I find I can cut them with a common spokeshave, in 3 1/2 hours, out of a log of deal. It is practicable to make an efficient spokeshave, by tying a large clasp-knife on a common stick which has been cut into a proper shape to receive it.

Oakum.--Old cord, picked into oakum, will also make a bed.

Various Makeshifts.--If a traveller, as is very commonly the case, should have no mattress, he should strew his sleeping-place with dry grass, plucked up from the ground, or with other things warm to the touch, imitating the structure of a bird's-nest as far as he has skill and materials to do so. Leaves, fern, feathers, heather, rushes, flags of reeds and of maize, wood-shavings, bundles of faggots, and such like materials as chance may afford, should be looked for and appropriated; a pile of stones, or even two trunks of trees rolled close together, may make a dry bedstead in a marshy land. Over these, let him lay whatever empty bags, skins, saddle-cloths, or spare clothes he may have, which from their shape or smallness cannot be turned to account as coverings, and the lower part of his bed is complete.

If a night of unusual cold be expected, the best use to make of spare wearing-apparel, is to put it on over that which is already on the person. With two or three shirts, stockings, and trousers, though severally of thin materials, a man may get through a night of very trying weather.

Preparing the Ground for a Bed.--Travellers should always root up the stones and sticks that might interfere with the smoothness of the place where they intend to sleep. This is a matter worth taking a great deal of pains about; the oldest campaigners are the most particular in making themselves comfortable at night. They should also scrape a hollow in the ground, of the shape shown in fig. 2 (next page), before spreading their sleeping-rugs. It is disagreeable enough to lie on a perfectly level surface, like that of a floor, but the acme of discomfort is to lie upon a convexity. Persons who have omitted to make a shapely lair for themselves, should at least scrape a hollow in the ground, just where the hip-bone would otherwise press.

[Sketch of person sleeping and bed; Fig. 1 and 2].

The annexed sketch (fig. 1) represents a man sleeping in a natural attitude. It will be observed that he fits into a concavity of about 6 inches in greatest depth. (The scale on which he is drawn is 6 feet long and 1 foot high.)

Hammocks.--See section on "furniture."

Coverlets.--General Remarks.--For an upper cover, it is of importance to an otherwise unsheltered person, that its texture should be such as to prevent the wind blowing through. If it does so, no thickness is of any avail in keeping out the cold; hence the advantage of skin carosses, buffalo robes, leather sheets, and macintosh rugs. All clothes lose much of their closeness of texture in a hot, dry climate; the fibres shrink extremely, and the wind blows through the tissue as through network. It is in order to make their coverings wind-proof, that shepherd-lads on the hills in Scotland, when the nights are cold, dip their plaids in water, before sitting or lying down in them. The wet swells up the fibres of the plaid, and makes the texture of it perfectly dense and close. It is also of importance that the outer covering should have a certain weight, so as not to be too easily displaced, either by the person fidgeting in his sleep or by the blowing of the wind. In dry weather there is nothing like furs; but in a rainy country I prefer a thick blanket bag (see "Sleeping Bags"), a large spare blanket, and a macintosh sheet and counterpane. It may be objected that the bag and macintosh would be close and stuffy, but be assured that the difficulty when sleeping on mother earth, on a bitter night, is to keep the fresh air out, not to let it in. On fine nights I should sleep on the bag and under the spare blanket.

Stuffy Bedding.--It must be understood that while recommending coverlets that resist the wind, I am very far from advocating extreme stuffiness, and for the following reason. Though a free passage of the wind abstracts an excessive amount of animal heat from the sleeper, yet the freshness of pure air stimulates his body to give it out in an increased proportion. On the other hand, sleeping-clothes that are absolutely impervious to the passage of the wind, necessarily retain the cutaneous excretions: these poison the sleeper, acting upon his blood through his skin, and materially weaken his power of emitting vital heat: the fire of his life burns more languidly. I therefore suspect it would be more dangerous to pass a very cold night enclosed tightly in thin macintosh buttoned up to the chin, than without it. Much less heat would be robbed from the sleeper in the first case, but he would have very much less heat to spare. There is, therefore, an intermediate arrangement of sleeping-gear, neither too stuffy on the one hand nor too open on the other, by which the maximum power of resisting the chill of the night is obtainable.

Sleeping Clothes.--Some travellers prefer to have their blanket at once made up into a loose coat, trousers, and cap, pockets ad libitum, and a tape in the trouser band. An extra suit is thus always at hand, the sleeper loses little of the advantages of comfortable bedding, and is always, in some sense, dressed for any emergency.

Feathers.--When you collect bed feathers for coverlets, recollect that if they are cleanly plucked, they will require no dressing of any kind, save drying and beating.

Brown Paper.--Brown paper is an excellent non-conductor of heat and excluder of draughts: English cottagers often enclose sheets of it within their quilted counterpanes. If thoroughly soaked and then dried, it will not crackle.

Extra Clothes.--If a man be destitute of proper wraps, he cannot do better than put on all the spare clothes he possesses. The additional warmth of a single extra shirt is remarkable.

Dry Clothes.--However wet the weather may be during the day, the traveller should never relax his endeavours to keep a dry and warm change of clothes for his bivouac at night. Hardships in rude weather matter little to a healthy man, when he is awake and moving, and while the sun is above the horizon; but let him never forget the deplorable results that may follow a single night's exposure to cold, malaria, and damp.

Pillows.--A mound of sand or earth, scraped together for a pillow, is ground down into flatness, after a few minutes. A bag filled with earth, or it may be with grass, keeps its shape. Many people use their saddles as pillows; they roll up the flaps and stirrups, and place the saddle on the ground with a stone underneath, at its hindmost end, to keep it level and steady, and then lay their heads on the seat. I prefer using anything else; as, for instance, the stone without the saddle: but I generally secure some bag or other for the purpose, as, without a pillow, it is difficult to sleep in comfort. A bag shaped like a pillow-case, and stuffed with spare clothes, is very convenient. Some people advocate air-cushions.

Mr. Mansfield Parkyns' excellent plan, of sleeping on the side, with the stock of the gun between the head and the arm, and the barrel between the legs, will be described when I speak of "Guns."

BIVOUAC.

There are four ways in which travellers who are thrown upon their own resources may house themselves. They may bivouac, that is to say, they may erect a temporary shelter of a makeshift character, partly from materials found on the spot, and partly from the cloths they may happen to possess; they may build a substantial hut, which of course takes a good deal of labour to complete; they may use sleeping-bags; or they may pitch a regular tent. I will speak of these four methods of encamping, --the bivouac, the hut, the sleeping-bag, and the tent, in that order.

General Remarks.--Bivouacking is miserable work in a wet or unhealthy climate; but in a dry and healthy one, there is no question of its superiority over tenting. Men who sleep habitually in the open, breathe fresher air and are far more imbued with the spirit of wild life, than those who pass the night within the stuffy enclosure of a tent. It is an endless pleasure to lie half awake watching the stars above, and the picturesque groupings of the encampment round about, and to hear on all sides the stirrings of animal life. And later in the night, when the fire is low, and servants and cattle are asleep, and there is no sound but of the wind and an occasional plaintive cry of wild animals, the traveller finds himself in that close communion with nature which is the true charm of wild travel. Now all this pleasure is lost by sleeping in a tent. Tent life is semi-civilization, and perpetuates its habits. This may be illustrated by a simple trait; a man who has lived much in bivouacs, if there be a night alarm, runs naturally into the dark for safety, just as a wild animal would; but a man who travels with tents becomes frightened when away from its lights, or from the fancied security of its walls.

In a dangerous country there can be no comparison between the hazard of a tent and that of a bivouac. In the former a man's sleep is heavy; he cannot hear nearly so well; he can see nothing; his cattle may all decamp; while marauders know exactly where he is lying, and may make their plans accordingly. They may creep up unobserved and spear him through the canvas. The first Napoleon had a great opinion of the advantages of bivouacking over those of tenting. He said it was the healthier of the two for soldiers. (See p. 153.)

Shelter from the Wind.--Study the form of a hare! In the flattest and most unpromising of fields, the creature will have availed herself of some little hollow to the lee of an insignificant tuft of grass, and there she will have nestled and fidgeted about till she has made a smooth, round, grassy bed, compact and fitted to her shape, where she may curl herself snugly up, and cower down below the level of the cutting night wind. Follow her example. A man, as he lies upon his mother earth, is an object so small and low that a screen of eighteen inches high will guard him securely from the strength of a storm. A common mistake of a novice lies in selecting a tree for his camping-place, which spreads out nobly above, but affords no other shelter from the wind than that of its bare stem below.

[Sketch of sleeping man behind wall].

It may be, that as he walks about in search of shelter, a mass of foliage at the level of his eye, with its broad shadow, attracts him, and as he stands to the leeward of it it seems snug, and, therefore, without further reflection, he orders his bed to be spread at the foot of some tree. But as soon as he lies down on the ground the tree proves worthless as a screen against the wind; it is a roof, but it is not a wall. The real want in blowy weather is a dense low screen, perfectly wind-tight, as high as the knee above the ground. Thus, if a traveller has to encamp on a bare turf plain, he need only turn up a sod seven feet long by two feet wide, and if he succeeds in propping it on its edge, it will form a sufficient shield against the wind.

In heavy gales, the neighbourhood of a solitary tree is a positive nuisance. It creates a violent eddy of wind, that leaves palpable evidence of its existence. Thus, in corn-fields, it is a common result of a storm to batter the corn quite flat in circles round each tree that stands in the field, while elsewhere no injury takes place. This very morning that I am writing these remarks, November 158, I was forcibly struck by the appearance of Kensington Gardens, after last night's gale, which had covered the ground with an extraordinary amount of dead leaves. They lay in a remarkably uniform layer, of from three to five inches in depth, except that round each and every tree the ground was absolutely bare of leaves for a radius of about a yard. The effect was as though circular discs had been cut out, leaving the edges of the layer of leaves perfectly sharp and vertical. It would have been a dangerous mistake to have slept that night at the foot of any one of those trees.