“Cliffs that rear their haughty head
Hard o’er the river’s darksome bed,
Where now all naked, wild, and gray,
Now waving all with greenwood spray;
The trees to every crevice clung
And o’er the dell their branches hung,
And there, all splintered and uneven,
The shivered rocks ascend to heaven.”
Sylvia carries her point without much difficulty. None of us are
averse to turning our faces down the French Broad, and Aunt Markham is
specially pleased by the idea.
“It is a good plan,” she says, “because we shall escape joining the
Dupont party. That Madame—what is her name?—fatigues me to death with
her raptures and compliments.”
“I think the Dupont party is, in a certain sense, at the bottom of the
suggestion,” says Eric. “It changes our plan of travel altogether, but
I am not inconsolable. I can endure any thing better than traveling in
a gang, like convicts.”
“You are very felicitous in your comparisons,” says Charley. “I doubt
whether we shall get rid of Dupont, however. He is so desperate that I
think he will leave his own party to join ours.”
“Perhaps you will exchange with him,” says Sylvia. “I can’t imagine how
you will support life without Adèle.”
“It will be difficult, no doubt,” says Charley serenely, “but in
traveling, as in politics, it is best to stand by one’s party. If
Dupont joins us, I shall not greatly object. He is a degree or two
better than that fellow Lanier.”
The gentleman designated in this complimentary manner, meanwhile, makes
his arrangements to join us. But when we are in readiness to start, one
of those unavoidable misfortunes that sometimes befall summer travelers
occurs—the rainy season in August begins. For three days it rains
steadily—Asheville appearing the while depressingly dirty and dull—and
it is only on the fourth day that the clouds disperse a little, the
carriages are ordered, and we prepare to set forth.
The order of our going is soon arranged. Sylvia, Charley, and Mr.
Lanier are on horseback; Aunt Markham, Rupert, and I, together with
John, fill the phaeton; Eric—who cannot endure that anyone else should
hold the reins while he sits by—drives the “jersey,” which serves as a
baggage-wagon, with Harrison (its nominal driver) by his side.
“So you have lent Charley your horse?” I say to him just before we
start. “It is more than he deserves after having refused to bring his
own.”
“I thought it would be too cruel to sentence the poor fellow to the
carriage, with Lanier by Sylvia’s side,” he answers, “but, of course,
we will vary our modes of travel. If it does not rain, I shall invite
you to share my seat in the baggage-wagon, by way of relief from the
carriage.”
The clouds, however, are determined that this pleasure shall be
indefinitely deferred. As we drive down the long, muddy hill that leads
out of Asheville, we observe that they hang low on the mountains—always
a threatening sign—and, before we have traveled three miles, a white
rain is upon us. Much to her disgust, Sylvia is forced to enter the
carriage, while Rupert mounts her horse; there is a general enveloping
in water-proof cloaks and coats, a consultation as to whether we shall
turn back, a unanimous vote to go on, and a resolute setting forward
in the teeth of the storm. It does not last very long; then there is a
slight interlude: the clouds cease to rain, though they still curtain
the sky in watery grayness. We are by this time immediately on the
banks of the river, following that famous “Buncombe turnpike” which
for more than fifty years was the great highway of travel between
North Carolina and the Southwestern States. Originally an Indian
trail, it has been and still remains the most picturesque road in the
mountains. The fall of the river from Asheville to the Warm Springs—a
distance of thirty-six miles—is seven hundred feet, from which the
rapidity of its current may be conceived, and the height of the hills
that overshadow it. As the gorge deepens they tower higher and yet
higher, these beautiful mountains, sometimes round and swelling, at
other times broken into cliff-like escarpments, with great masses of
rock overhanging the narrow pass, and tropical verdure feathering
every ledge and point. What studies of form and color are here for a
future generation of artists, no words can fitly say. The road, as it
stretches before us, is a picture never to be forgotten. On one side
the whirling, tumultuous river leaps and races over the rocks that
strew its channel; on the other steep hillsides hang, dark with shade,
green with ferns, damp with trickling streams. The road turns, and lo!
there is a fairy glen, down which a white cascade comes leaping over
its rocks “to join the brimming river,” or a narrow stretch of valley,
planted generally in tall, rustling corn.
We are not allowed to enjoy this charming beauty with any satisfaction
to ourselves very long. The clouds gather again, the rain begins once
more—this time with a steady, settled persistence that gives no hope of
abatement, and presently Rupert rides up to the side of the carriage.
“Brother Eric says we shall have to stop at Alexander’s. He declares it
is impossible to go on to the Springs in such weather as this. It is
disagreeable to us, and hard on the horses.”
“What a bore!” says Sylvia. “Alexander’s is no doubt a very pleasant
place, but when one starts with an object in view, one likes to attain
it. What must be, must be, however. We should certainly see little of
the gorge in this deluge.”
Consequently, we make our first halt at Alexander’s, ten miles below
Asheville. No house of its kind is more widely known, or more
deservedly popular, than this delightful hostelry. One secret of its
charm is in the fact that there is no aping of the modern hotel about
it. Nothing can be more quaint, more old-fashioned, more comfortable,
and thoroughly unpretentious than all its arrangements. A pleasant
farm-house on a large scale, with a post office and bowling alley
in front, a bridge crossing the river, and high, green hills rising
abruptly around—this is Alexander’s. Of the comfort of its lodging, the
excellence of its table, thousands of travelers can speak. Withal, it
is a dreamy, restful place, where even the racing river grows tranquil,
and, shut in by the great hills, one feels as if one might enjoy that
repose of mind and body which is rare in this feverish age.
We find the house, as usual, full of guests—so full that Mr. Alexander
demurs about receiving us; but, moved to compassion by the towering
skies and our drenched condition, finally agrees to stretch a point
and take us in. This is something for which to be grateful, since
there is no cessation in the steady downpour for the rest of the day.
The river—usually green as Niagara—sweeps by, a turbid flood, and
sight-seeing is utterly out of the question. We play whist on the
vine-draped piazza, go over to the bowling alley under umbrellas, grow
friendly with all the inmates of the house, study maps, and learn all
about the great floods of the past spring.
“Almost all the bridges in this part of the country were swept away,”
says Mr. Alexander. “The bridge over Laurel went—you ford the river
now—and the bridge at the Warm Springs over the French Broad.”
“Do we ford there?” asks Aunt Markham, terrified at such a prospect.
“No, there is a ferry.”
“One of the most inconvenient modes that ever was devised for crossing
a stream,” says Eric.
“I don’t think we are likely to cross any streams in any manner very
soon,” says Charley. “The clouds look as if they had settled steadily
to business, and meant to rain for a week.”
This is depressingly true, yet, as we sit on the piazza late in the
afternoon, there is a slight indication of breaking away. The rain
“holds up,” as country people say; a glow of some faint, indescribable
kind begins to light up the vapory heavens and turbid river-stretch.
When we come out from tea the scene has become beautiful. Far down the
river a primrose tint in the west shines through the green foliage, and
the clouds are rolling away from the eastern heavens. Everything is
dripping with moisture; but, equipping ourselves with water-proofs and
overshoes, we go out on the bridge. It is impossible to describe the
fresh loveliness of the scene as we stand with the turbulent, swollen
river flowing underneath in long, swirling ripples, and watch the light
die out of that portion of the west which we see through the river-gap.
The clouds change their shapes and aspects momently—now watery gray,
as they have been all day, now white as snowdrifts against a dark-blue
sky. Solemn and stately, the great hills enclose us, with their aspect
of eternal, melancholy calm, and from all the defiles white mists are
rising.
Something in the picture touches Sylvia. She turns from Ralph Lanier to
where Charley stands leaning over the wet railing and whistling softly;
laying her hand on his arm:
“_You_ told me first about the French Broad,” she says, “but I did not
fancy it was half so beautiful as this.”
“As this!” repeats Charley. “Why, this is nothing. The grandeur of the
gorge does not begin until four or five miles below here.”
“Well,” she says, with a laugh, “it is pleasant to think that something
better is coming—but this is good enough. Charley, that looks like
a very pleasant road along the river-bank yonder. Can we not walk a
little?”
“Certainly,” answers Charley, with an alacrity he would not be likely
to display if anyone else made the same suggestion. “You’ll find it
rather damp, but if you have on overshoes—”
“Oh, yes, overshoes and a water-proof. Come! I don’t want to go back to
the house to play whist and be bullied by everybody round the table for
not leading trumps.”
She takes his arm, and they start, but Mr. Lanier in his anxiety cannot
forbear entering a protest.
“You are surely not going to walk on the side of the river, Miss
Sylvia,” he says. “You’ve no idea how wet it is—you will certainly
take cold.—Kenyon, this is very imprudent—”
“Very good of you to consider my health,” says Charley. “I am afraid I
may take a sore throat, or something of the kind; but when a lady gives
an invitation, you know it is impossible to refuse.”
“Aunt Markham will take my hand at whist, Mr. Lanier,” says Sylvia’s
gay, mischievous voice. Then they walk away, and we soon see their
figures strolling along the winding road by the river-bank.
Eric laughs at the vexed expression which, even in the dim light, we
see on Mr. Lanier’s face as he watches them.
“Give her line, Ralph,” he says, good-naturedly. “A fish like that is
not landed at once—if, indeed, you are lucky enough to land her at all.”
“I sometimes think, by Jove, that I never shall,” says Mr. Lanier, with
emphasis. “One minute she is as kind and gracious as could possibly be
desired; the next she thrusts a fellow off at arm’s length. I don’t
pretend to understand such women.”
“They don’t generally intend that you should understand them,” says
Eric, quietly.
After this we return to the house and play another game of whist—Aunt
Markham taking Sylvia’s hand, and calling Mr. Lanier sharply to account
for all the blunders which he makes, and which owe their origin to a
distracted mind. Whist-players know what concentration of thought this
game demands, and poor Mr. Lanier’s thoughts are following Sylvia up
and down the wet riverside.
She comes in late, with wet boots and draggled skirts, but a pretty
flush on her cheeks and light in her eyes. “We have been watching the
moon rise,” she hastens to assure Aunt Markham. “There is a bluff about
a quarter of a mile down the river, which is perfectly lovely.—Are my
feet wet? Well, yes—slightly so, but I am going to bed, so it does not
matter. Good-night.”
“One moment, Miss Sylvia!” cries Mr. Lanier, springing after her; but
she flits away with a laugh and is gone.
The first sound I hear next morning is that of rain heavily falling,
but by breakfast-time a few faint gleams of sunshine have appeared,
and after breakfast we decide to order the carriages and make another
effort to reach the Warm Springs. Half a dozen amateur weather-prophets
assure us that it will be a clear day. “The mists are rising, the
clouds are breaking,” they say. “By twelve o’clock you will have as
much sun as you want, and perhaps a little more.”
Cheered by these assurances, we start. Eric and I in the wagon lead the
way, the carriage and horsemen follow. But for the heaviness of the
road, the day would be delightful—a perfect day for traveling. Light
veils of cloud obscure the sun, though now and then a burst of sunlight
breaks forth and lights up the world with splendor. Three or four miles
below Alexander’s we enter on that part of the road which leads below
the cliffs. They rise over our heads hundreds of feet—these beautiful,
majestic heights— broken ledges and masses of rock, in every interstice
of which great pines grow, and thickets of rhododendron flourish. In
the dark shade, ferns, flowers, and mosses abound, together with trees
of every variety, while down the hillsides and over the rocks countless
streams come leaping in foam and spray.
We make slow progress here. It is impossible not to pause and linger
at every step. The road, flecked with shadows, stretches before us,
bounded on one side by the tumultuous river, overshadowed on the other
by these inexpressibly picturesque escarpments. Sylvia descends from
her horse, and, looping up her habit, climbs the rocks with almost
childlike delight—followed by her two attendants, who do not probably
enjoy the scrambling so much. Yet a change has evidently come over
Charley. Despite his indolence, he has a genuine love of Nature, and
it begins to assert itself. Lanier, on the contrary, would be plainly
content to sit on his horse and say, “Really, very beautiful!”
“How little idea most people have of the grandeur of this country!”
says Eric. “The pass of the Trosachs is nothing to this gorge of the
French Broad—yet compare the renown of the one with the obscurity of
the other.”
“Yet the scenery of the French Broad is tame compared to some that is
to be found in these mountains—and which is absolutely unknown,” says
Charley.
“Tame!” repeats Sylvia. “Are we always to remain below in the scale of
comparison? Shall we never see any thing which has the distinction of
being superlative?”
“Yes, you will stand on the Black Mountain and you will see Hickory-Nut
Gap,” Eric answers. “Those two things are superlative.”
Since the day is wearing on, we cannot linger so long as we should
like. Though our road is bounded by the narrow walls of the gorge
through which the river forces its way, there is no monotony in the
scenery. Every curve of the winding stream gives us a picture of new
beauty—a picture essentially unlike any that we have seen before.
As we advance, the mountains on each side rise higher, the stream
grows wilder, the masses of rock which strew its channel are larger,
sometimes piled in fantastic shapes with the water surging around and
boiling under them, or forming islands covered with greenness.
[Illustration: At Luncheon.]
Toward the middle of the day the sun shines out hotly—making our
noonday rest, while we eat our luncheon, very pleasant. It is while we
are engaged in this manner, scattered over the rocks by the river-bank,
under the shade of the trees, that to our surprise the stage, which
we expected to meet much later in the day, comes driving past. Two or
three voices hail the driver:
“Halloa!—from the Warm Springs already?”
_Driver_: “Haven’t been to the Springs to-day—couldn’t cross Laurel
yesterday evening.”
“Is it too high for fording?”
“Much too high.”
“Do you think it is down by this time?”
“Can’t tell—maybe.”
Then the lumbering vehicle rattles on, and we look at each other.
“By George! here’s a promising state of affairs!” says Mr. Lanier,
twisting the ends of his black mustache.
“I’ve had my doubts about Laurel from the first,” says Charley, taking
another sandwich. “It’s a dangerous-looking stream even at low water.”
“O Eric,” cries Aunt Markham, with perturbation on her countenance,
“let us go back to Alexander’s.”
“I’m opposed to turning back,” says Rupert, who is balancing himself in
a precarious manner on a tree which hangs over the water. “If we can’t
cross Laurel, we can camp out.”
“Well said, Rupert!” cries Sylvia. “I have always desired two things
ardently—to camp out all night, and to be lost in the mountains. If we
can compass the first, I shall have hopes of the last.”
“Sylvia, how can you talk so foolishly!” says Aunt Markham.—“Eric, what
do you mean to do?”
“To go on, mother,” answers Eric. “These mountain streams run down as
fast as they rise. We can’t reach Laurel before late afternoon, and it
will be low enough to cross by that time.”
Two things which are very essential in a leader Eric possesses—coolness
and resolution. Many men under such circumstances would say to the
party, “What shall we do?” and endless discussion would be the result.
Eric simply announces what he means to do, and even Aunt Markham
submits. “You’ll promise that if there is any danger you won’t take us
in?” she says; and, when he says, “I promise that most positively,” she
is content.
Our luncheon over, we start again. A few miles brings us to Marshall,
the seat of Madison County. A more singularly located village cannot
well be imagined. It is situated immediately on the river, in a valley
not more than a quarter of a mile wide, with sheer, steep hills rising
abruptly behind, and the river in front.
“The streams in this part of the country cannot rise like ours,” I say
to Eric, “or else Marshall would be submerged twice a year at least.
Think of the Yadkin, that rose last spring forty feet!”
“The French Broad never rises like that,” he answers; “it runs off too
rapidly. A bridge has been swept away here, but I doubt if the river
came up to the town. We’ll ask.”
We do ask, and are told that it came up to the first row of
houses—about ten feet above its usual level—but rose no farther. The
bridge went like a thread, and a pretty, cultivated island lying in
the middle of the stream was entirely overflowed. We try to obtain
some information about Laurel here, but nobody knows any thing. As
we drive out of the town, a darkly threatening cloud is hanging over
the mountains, and we hear “sounds of thunder afar.” We pause at the
toll-gate, where a woman comes out to receive the toll, superintended
by a cadaverous-looking man, evidently ill with fever, who is lying on
a mattress in an upper piazza. Of him, also, we solicit information of
Laurel.
“I haven’t seen nobody from there to-day,” he responds, “but the stage
came back last night without crossing. If it hasn’t rained any more on
the head-waters, the river may be down by this time. There’s an old man
living there that’ll show you the ford. Travelin’ fur?”
“Down to the Springs,” answers Eric, touching the horses; and on we go.
Just below Marshall, the river makes a magnificent curve, sweeping
with a bold and beautiful stretch around the base of the wooded cliffs
that rise abruptly from its verge, and from this point the grandeur of
the gorge is unmatched and absolutely beyond description. The scenes
grow wilder with every mile. Our ears are filled with the roar of the
tumultuous river that lashes itself to fury among the rocks of every
conceivable form that seem trying to bar its way. Much of the road is
made in the bed of the stream, and, as we wind around the cliffs that
jut out here and there, it is always with the devout hope that we may
not come face to face with some other vehicle. In such a case it is
impossible to see what either party would or could do. We are spared
any thing of the kind, however, and so we go on, feeling as if we were
leaving civilization altogether behind, and plunging deeper and deeper
into the heart of primeval Nature. The fact that we meet no travelers
strikes us.
“I am afraid Laurel _is_ up,” Eric says, doubtfully, “else we should
have met somebody from beyond there.”
One feature of the day’s travel also impresses us—the number of people
who are engaged in fishing. At least once in the course of every
half mile we pass a group of men and boys employed in this manner.
Our curiosity is roused at last. Why should the whole population of
the French Broad be devoting themselves to fishing on this special
day? We ask two or three, but receive little satisfaction. Unless
approached with some tact, your mountaineer is apt to prove sullen and
non-committal.
[Illustration: Fishermen.]
The road is so rough and so muddy that it is impossible to travel fast,
and the afternoon is more than half gone before we hear that we are
nine miles from Laurel, of the state of which we have not yet received
any definite information.
“Eric,” says Charley, riding up to the side of the phaeton which Eric
is driving, “I have grave doubts about that river ahead of us. If we
can’t cross it, where do you propose to spend the night? There is not a
tolerable place between the Springs and Alexander’s.”
“We can camp out,” says Sylvia, riding up on the other side. “Eric,
pray let us do that.—Aunt Markham, wouldn’t you rather sleep in the
carriage than in such houses as we have passed?”
“I think I should,” says Aunt Markham, “but I would rather cross Laurel
than do either.”
Charley shakes his head as he falls back. He is plainly not sanguine
about Laurel. The case is desperate now, however; it is too far to
go back—we must go on. Two or three showers have passed over us, but
we are inured to wettings by this time, and do not mind them; massed
clouds are before and behind, but we scarcely glance at them. On we
drive for three miles farther, rugged cliffs hanging over us, a rocky
road below, the rushing river by our side. Every-thing around is so wild
that unconsciously our spirits begin to fail a little. What if Laurel
should be up? Where and how shall we spend the night?
“I think there is a storm coming over, Eric,” says Aunt Markham,
presently, from the back of the phaeton. “Shall we not better put up
the top?”
Eric turns, partly to look at the clouds, partly to assist in pulling
up the top. In doing so, he fails to avoid one of the rocks of which
the road is full. Crash against it goes the phaeton-wheel, there is a
loud snap under our feet, and, as Eric pulls up the horses, he says:
“By George, there goes a spring!”
The equestrians are lingering in the rear, but, seeing our abrupt halt,
Charley comes up at a canter.
“Ride on and stop those fellows in front,” says Eric, as he comes
abreast of us, “and tell John to bring a rope here.—I am sorry to say
you must all get out of the carriage.—Rupert, come and unharness the
horses.”
We alight, and Aunt Markham seats herself on a rock with an expression
of countenance that might move a statue to amusement. Disgust,
despair, consternation, unutterable resignation to any thing that may
occur—all this is so plainly visible on her face that I go to the
river-bank—about two feet distant—to enjoy a private laugh.
Meanwhile, Sylvia and her escort appear on the scene.
“Spring broken?” says Mr. Lanier, looking almost as much concerned as
Aunt Markham. “What luck!”
“I’ve been ’feared of that spring all along, Mass Eric,” says John,
coming up with a coil of rope over his shoulder.
“Well, the worst has come,” says Eric, “so now let us go to work and
remedy it.— Charley, lend a hand here.”
While Rupert holds the horses—which have been taken out of the
carriage—and Eric, Charley, and John bandage the broken spring, Mr.
Lanier sits on his horse and contemplatively pulls his mustache. He is
evidently of the opinion that misfortune has marked us for its own, and
that traveling on the French Broad has its disadvantages.
Suddenly Aunt Markham extends her hand like a tragedy-queen and points
up the river.
“The rain is coming,” she says. “Will somebody bring me a water-proof?”
Mr. Lanier springs from his horse and goes in search of this
garment—not an instant too soon. We have scarcely time to envelop
ourselves before the rain is upon us. There comes a blaze of lightning,
a volleying peal of thunder, then the clouds empty themselves in a
white, blinding sheet that almost takes away our breath and promises to
soak us to the skin.
“O Alice, isn’t this dreadful?” says Sylvia, whose taste for adventure
begins to be a little damped. As for Aunt Markham, she thinks that
forbearance has ceased to be a virtue, and she cries that she must and
will get into the carriage.
“I _cannot_ sit here in a pool of water!” she says. “Eric, I shall take
my death of cold—I am sure of it.”
“We’ll be ready for you in a minute, mother,” says Eric, working like a
Trojan.
In the midst of all this, a horseman unexpectedly appears, riding
around a cliff just ahead of us, where the river makes a bend. He
pauses—naturally surprised at the scene before him. It is by no means
common to find parties of our description on the French Broad in a
pouring rain. _We_ hail him with our usual question:
“Can you tell us how far we are from Laurel?”
“Four miles,” he answers, staring hard. “Broken a spring?”
“Yes. Is Laurel up?”
“Pretty high. You are not thinking about crossing it?”
“We are thinking exactly that,” says Eric, turning round, “if the
stream isn’t too high. Have _you_ crossed it?”
“No—it’s beyond crossing, except in a canoe. I’m just from there,
though. I live on Laurel, five miles from the mouth. The river has been
past fording for five days. It is running eight or ten feet deep now,
and will swim a horse.”
[Illustration: The Shower.]
“By Jove!” says Mr. Lanier. Nobody else utters a word. We are all
stunned, and we gaze at the messenger of evil tidings with a mixture of
indignation and appeal.
“It can’t be!” cries Sylvia, entreatingly. “They say mountain streams
run down very fast—oh, don’t you think we _might_ cross it if we went
on?”
The new-comer—who in face and manner is more decided and intelligent
than any other native of the region we have met—glances at her, and
then points to the tossing, turbulent current of the French Broad.
“You could just as soon drive to that rock yonder,” he says, indicating
a black, jagged point two-thirds of the distance across the river.
“Laurel is fully that wide, and fully that swift.”
We look at each other in dismay. What is to be said, what is to be
done? Torrents of rain are pouring on us, lightning is flashing around,
and thunder bellowing above. We are in the wildest part of the wild
river gorge, with Laurel “deep enough to swim a horse” in front, and
Alexander’s eighteen miles behind!