“A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, ‘Boatman, do not tarry!
And I’ll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o’er the ferry.’”
“Eric,” cries Aunt Markham, with strong symptoms of hysterics, “come
here this instant and tell me if we are all to be drowned!”
Eric is undutiful enough to disregard this appeal. He walks instead up
to the man who has warned us, and who, with supreme indifference to
the rain, is sitting on his horse watching our proceedings with great
interest.
“If you are sure there is no possibility of our crossing Laurel,” he
says, “can you tell me any house within a moderate distance where we
can spend the night?”
“Eric!” cries Aunt Markham again.
The prospect of spending the night in any one of the houses which are
found commonly through the country is nearly as appalling as the idea
of being drowned.
But Eric knows what is best for us, and goes on inflexibly:
“I must find some shelter for these ladies,” he says. “Where is the
nearest house?”
“About a mile back,” the other answers. “You can get accommodation
there, I expect. It’s the house of a friend of mine. There’s no other
that I know of nearer than five or six miles.”
“John, turn the carriage as soon as you put in the horses,” says our
commanding officer. “Charley, ride forward and see that Harrison does
the same with the wagon.”
So it is settled. John turns the carriage—a dangerous matter this, on
the narrow road—then we crowd in and shield ourselves as well as we
can from the driving rain that comes in our faces in sheets of spray.
So we start back. But our progress is slow. Streams that were rivulets
an hour before are leaping torrents now, with currents so strong and
swift that it is as much as our horses can do to pull us through. Once
the danger seems so imminent that we may be swept into the river, Aunt
Markham utters a scream.
Sylvia only clasps my hand tightly, and when we reach the bank in
safety, she says, “What must Laurel be!”
All our fancy for adventurous camping-out is dissipated by the
blinding, soaking rain. We feel that any shelter will be welcome, no
matter how rough it may be. And the shelter to which we presently
come is very rough. Yet the house has plainly seen better days.
It is a two-story frame building—once, no doubt, a well-kept
farm-house—situated a little back from the road. Two or three men are
seated in the piazza. One comes forward, and when Eric says, “Can you
take us in for the night?” answers, with a doubtful glance at our
number, “Well, I reckin so.”
We do not wait for the slow assent to spring out and take refuge in the
piazza. Then we utter a long sigh of relief. After all, it is pleasant
to have a roof over one’s head! Our host leads us into a large,
barn-like room, with several smaller ones opening from it. “I’ll kindle
some fire in a minute for you to dry yourselves,” he says.
We certainly stand in need of drying. Mermaids could scarcely be more
wet. Wherever we stand or sit, a pool of water soon settles. We take
off our water-proofs and shawls and stretch them on chairs, laughing
the while at our plight. Aunt Markham plainly thinks this mirth very
ill-timed. She looks round with a shudder as she sits, majestic and
dripping, in the middle of the room—but she says nothing. Words are too
weak to express her feelings.
Presently a fire is roaring up the great chimney, and, by the time
the gentlemen come to inquire how we have fared, we are restored to
our normal condition of dryness and warmth. Nevertheless, flasks are
produced and potations insisted upon. “It is the only way to keep from
taking cold,” says Eric, imperatively.
“Your wishes are gratified, Miss Sylvia,” says Ralph Lanier, with
rather an air of reproach. “You were desiring adventures—here they are.”
“Do you consider me the Jonah who has brought all this ill-luck?” she
asks, laughing. “In that case I ought to be thrown overboard—ought I
not? The river is convenient for any thing of that kind.”
The violence of the rain abates before very long, and we go out on the
piazza to look around. The prospect is cheerless in the extreme. The
house has a dispirited air of decay, and rose-trees have grown to a
tangled thicket in front. At the end of the piazza two young men are
talking to our host. Charley says that they are from South Carolina,
and are on a walking-tour through the mountains.
“They came from the Springs to-day,” he adds, “and crossed Laurel in a
canoe. We met them, if you remember, just before our breakdown.”
As the rain abates, our spirits sink. Let it abate ever so much, we
have still the certainty of an aimless afternoon and comfortless night
before us. No hope of crossing Laurel before the next day, no possible
chance of returning to Alexander’s. Suddenly, however, a cry is raised
that somewhat cheers us: “The stage is coming!”
“By Jove!” says Mr. Lanier, “I felt sure that fellow was deceiving us
about Laurel.”
“That fellow” has also arrived by this time, and, in a very damp
condition, is seated near. It is a chance whether or not he hears this
grateful speech. Fortunately, the attention of everyone is fastened on
the stage, which comes into sight—empty! We salute the driver with a
cry.
“Are you going over Laurel?”
_Driver._ “Mean to try.” Then he nods to the man who warned us: “How
are you, George?”
George shakes his head.
“You can’t cross,” he says.
“I’ll take the mail to the banks anyway,” responds the other, driving
on.
“If you find that you can cross, _please_ come back for us,” cries
Sylvia, eagerly.
“He’s not likely to cross,” say the men at the other end of the piazza.
Mr. Lanier shrugs his shoulders impatiently. “There’s no relying on a
word these people say,” he remarks. “But the bridge should have been
rebuilt long ago. It is infamous for travelers to be delayed in this
manner. What a place this is for ladies to spend the night!”
“Don’t trouble yourself about us,” replies Sylvia, nonchalantly. “We
do not mind a little hardship; but I am afraid _you_ have made a grave
mistake. Had you not better turn round even yet and go to the White
Sulphur and Saratoga?”
The young man colors.
“I was not thinking of myself,” he says. “Of course it does not matter
to me—at least not very much.”
“Has anybody brought a pack of cards along?” asks Charley, sauntering
up. “Let us have a game of euchre.”
[Illustration: “Up we spring, and rush to the edge of the piazza.”]
In the midst of this, and just as Sylvia is playing an exciting “lone
hand,” there is another cry: “Here comes a man who has crossed Laurel!”
Up we spring, and rush to the edge of the piazza. A man driving two
horses in a jersey wagon is stopped by a storm of tumultuous questions.
“Yes, I’m from the other side of Laurel,” he replies.
“Forded the river?” asks the incredulous chorus.
“No—ferried it in a canoe. I’ve been water-bound on the other side
three days, and I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I took my wagon-body
off the wheels, slipped it on the canoe, and swam the horses over.”
“Eureka!” cries Eric, striking one hand on the other. “That is an idea
for us! What has been done can be done again. If Laurel is still up
to-morrow, I’ll take the carriages over in that way.”
“You’ll run a great risk if you do,” says Mr. Lanier, who evidently
does not know what reckless thing may be proposed or executed next.
“A fig for the risk!” says Charley. “I’d quite as soon cross that way
as another.”
“And I would _rather_ cross that way!” cries Sylvia. “What fun it will
be!”
Mr. Lanier looks grave. Crossing swollen streams in a canoe is not his
idea of fun.
“Let us hope the stream may be down by to-morrow,” he says.
We return to our game of euchre, but I cannot forget the width and
general appearance of the wagon which was said to have been brought
over on a canoe.
“Eric,” I say, “these people must be talking about a boat—a constructed
boat. They can’t possibly mean a dug-out.”
“Our friend here will tell us,” says Eric.
Then he turns to our first acquaintance—the man who lives five miles
from the mouth of Laurel.
“Is that craft of which you are all talking a dug-out?” he asks.
“Yes, it’s a dug-out—hollowed from the trunk of a tree,” is the reply.
“The tree must surely have grown in California,” says Sylvia.
“No, madam,” is the answer. “I can find plenty of chestnuts ten feet in
diameter on the Walnut Mountains just below here, and I’m almost sure I
could find walnuts of the same size.”
“There was a dug-out on the river here,” says our host, chiming in,
“that I saw one day hold five men and a mule—and could a’ held more.”
“There is no doubt of one thing,” says Eric—“this is one of the most
splendidly timbered countries on the face of the globe.”
“You don’t know what it is until you go out on the mountains,” says Mr.
George. “There’s hardly a known tree that doesn’t grow here—and grow
to the finest size. You’d not believe me if I were to tell you of what
height and diameter I have seen the white pine.”
“Yes, we would,” says Charley. “We are prepared to be enlightened, and
ready to believe any thing.”
A few more tree-stories are told, and then we ask the cause of the
fishing mania which has seized all the population of the French Broad.
“Those were not more than the pickets and outposts that you saw,” says
our informant. “The main body of the fishing army is below here. I
passed at least twenty in four miles to-day. Some of the fellows sat up
fishing all night, and I know three men who only caught two fish among
’em—and those were cats.”
“What’s the idea?”
“Oh, well, it’s too wet to do any thing else, and they think the fish
will bite better because the river’s muddy.”
By the aid of conversation and cards, the afternoon and evening
drag through. One shower succeeds another in the most rapid and
disheartening succession, so that it is impossible to leave the house
even for a short walk, and no one is sanguine enough to speak of
“clearing off.”
“We might as well go back to Asheville,” says Aunt Markham, who regards
our prospects in the darkest manner.
“Not without an effort to do otherwise,” says Eric. “I don’t choose to
be baffled by Fate and the Laurel.”
The day has been fatiguing, and we all retire early. Of the lodging and
fare which we find at this wayside house, it is best to say no more
than that the people gave us their best, and seemed honestly anxious to
do all in their power to please us.
About nine o’clock the stage passes back and reports Laurel still
rising. We are, therefore, cheered when, on waking the next morning,
we hear the rain coming down “in bucketfuls,” as Sylvia despondently
remarks.
“We shall have to stay here all day,” she says. “I feel sure of it.
We cannot even go back to Alexander’s, for the creeks are up between
here and there. Oh, dear! Were ever people out for a pleasure-trip more
badly treated by the weather?”
When we leave our room, Charley is the first person to meet us, with
the pleasant sunshine of his face undimmed by the gloomy outlook.
Surely an equable temperament is one of the greatest blessings in the
world—especially in a traveling-companion.
“‘Not for gold or precious stones would I leave
my mountain home,’”
he sings, gayly. “I hope you are in better spirits than Lanier
is this morning, Sylvia. If matters go on at the present rate, I am
afraid he will commit suicide or go melancholy mad. It is a pity to see
a man have so little philosophy. Can’t you cheer him a little?”
“I haven’t the least disposition to try,” says Sylvia. “Do any of us
like the delay?— is it anybody’s fault? I am disgusted with Mr. Lanier,
and I wish he had gone to a watering-place where he might dance the
German to his heart’s content, instead of joining our party.”
“Who is accountable for his joining it?” says Charley. But I do not
think he is ill-pleased by the young lady’s petulance.
We go out on the piazza. The sky is a leaden curtain, the rain is
pouring in torrents, the road is black mud and water, the river is a
turbid flood. There is a sheer wall of cliff and forest opposite, along
the base of which the impetuous current sweeps.
“What are you going to do, Eric?” we ask, as that gentleman comes up.
“Nothing at present,” he answers. “What can a man do in the face of
such a downpour as this? By nine o’clock there will probably be some
signs of clearing. Then I will go to Laurel and see what the chances
are for our getting across.”
By nine o’clock there _are_ some signs of clearing. A few faint gleams
of sunshine appear, and the mists begin to rise from the mountains.
Horses are brought out, and the gentlemen, with the exception of Mr.
Lanier, start for the banks of Laurel, which is said to be all the
more dangerous—to have all the more force in its current—because it is
higher than the French Broad, into which it empties.
The morning passes in very dull fashion. Aunt Markham settles herself
to a novel. Sylvia and I go out and stroll—wade, perhaps, would give
a more correct idea of the road—along the river-bank, attended by Mr.
Lanier. I soon grow tired of playing the part of “third wheel to the
cart,” as the Germans say, and return to the house, leaving the others
established in a cool, damp nook under some large trees that sweep
the river with their bending boughs. An hour or two pass. No sign of
the return of the horsemen; Aunt Markham grows uneasy, and suggests
that they may have been drowned. Sylvia does not stir from her seat by
the river; Mr. Lanier is talking earnestly—so earnestly that I feel
a malicious inclination to go and break up the _tête-à-tête_. I have
taken an unaccountable dislike to this young gentleman, despite his
good looks and his well-filled purse. “Wae’s me for Prince Charlie,” I
think—and then I see Prince Charley coming at a canter along the road.
“Good news!” he says, as he draws up his horse. “Laurel is falling,
and will be low enough by the afternoon for you to be ferried over in
a canoe. Eric has made all the arrangements. I’ve seen the boat, and
there is not the least danger.”
“Are you sure of that?” asks Aunt Markham, tremulously. She is divided
between her dislike to staying where she is and her terror of crossing
in a canoe. “I never was in a dug-out,” she says, “but I’ve seen them
often. They rock horribly, and will upset at a touch.”
“Not this one,” says Charley. “Though a dug-out, it is two feet and a
half wide.”
The sun by this time is shining brilliantly, and with great heat. We
take dinner; then the carriages are brought out, and the almost endless
business of stowing away our luggage begins. Besides the trunks there
are satchels and baskets, boxes of grasses, books of ferns, and an
unlimited number of wraps. Aunt Markham declines to allow the last to
be strapped together. “It is useless,” she says. “We shall need them
before we have gone a mile.”
Despite this foreboding prophecy, the afternoon remains clear, and
we see the wild beauty of the gorge for the first time to advantage.
The air is like crystal, and a glory of sunlight streams on the river
with its masses of rock and the mountains that overshadow it. In the
five miles that lie between our place of lodging and the banks of
Laurel, the picturesque loveliness changes and deepens constantly.
The river grows more and more tumultuous, and its waves wear caps of
foam like the breakers of the ocean as they plunge in stormy rapids
over its hidden rocks. Rugged cliffs hang over us, fringed with ferns
and mosses; verdure-clad mountains rise from the other bank; leaping
cascades tumble down the rocky glens and dash across our way—there are
pictures on every side that would repay the lover of Nature or the
artist for any hardship or fatigue that could possibly be encountered
in reaching this land of almost unknown beauty.
[Illustration: Laurel Run.]
Presently we see a broad, green stream flowing in front of us, and
the horses are drawn up on the banks of Laurel. Notwithstanding the
late heavy rains, there is no tinge of mud in the clear water of this
mountain river, and we appreciate the strength of its current when we
see that it sweeps directly across the French Broad before the latter
river can change its course. Even then, it takes half of the channel,
and the clear and the turbid current flow onward side by side.
The bridge which was swept away crossed the stream near its mouth; but
the ford is a little higher, and to this we drive. There is a cabin on
the other side, from which, in answer to several halloos, the ferryman
issues. The canoe in which we are to make the passage is moored on the
other side, and at this Aunt Markham gazes doubtfully.
“John,” she says to her coachman, whom she considers less likely to
run dangerous risks than Eric, in whose vocabulary fear is a word
unknown—“John, do you think that boat is safe? I suppose we can cross
in it, but how about the carriages and the horses? Don’t you think it
might be better for you to remain on this side until the river goes
down?”
This is a proposal which does not meet with John’s approval. No one
has a better appreciation of good lodging and good fare than the negro
of the old _régime_. “There ain’t no danger at all ef we takes the
carriages off the wheels,” he replies. “We can hold ’em steady on the
boat, and the horses can swim easy enough.”
“Oh, it will all be easy,” says Eric, coming to the carriage door.
“There is no reason to be nervous, mother. I am sorry that it is
necessary you should alight—every thing must be taken out of here,
John—luggage, cushions, every thing.”
“This is—dreadful!” says Aunt Markham, with a gasp, after she has
been deposited on the road-side in the blazing heat of the sun, with
satchels, novels, and baskets strewed around in wild confusion.
“I call it jolly,” says Rupert, who is prancing about on Cecil, and
getting as much as possible in everybody’s way.
“Don’t ride that horse over me, Rupert!” cries Aunt Markham, retreating
in terror and making convulsive efforts to scramble up the steep hill
behind her.
[Illustration: “There ain’t no danger at all.”]
“I must say that I consider this a very great risk,” observes Mr.
Lanier, climbing to where I have perched on the hillside, under the
shade of a large walnut tree. “I shall not be surprised if Markham
loses one or both of his carriages, and gets some of the horses
drowned. In my opinion the river is still too high and too swift to be
crossed with safety in any way.”
“Suppose you stay on this side, then?” I cannot resist saying. “Yonder
comes the ferryman. He seems to have no difficulty about bringing the
boat over.”
“What a pleasant way of crossing!” says Sylvia’s voice below. She is
standing with Charley on the bank of the stream, while Eric, who lends
a hand to every thing, is assisting Harrison to take off the trunks,
and John and Rupert are taking out the horses. “What shall go over
first—a cargo of trunks or a cargo of people?” she says, turning round
as the boat touches the shore.
“You and I will go,” says Charley. “Let us be the first to make the
passage.”
“The whole party may as well go,” says Eric. “The boat is large enough.”
“We don’t want the whole party,” says Sylvia. “We mean to cross by
ourselves, with a trunk or two for ballast.—Harrison, bring mine
here.—If I go to the bottom, let me at least have the satisfaction of
knowing that I take my wardrobe along with me.”
Two or three trunks are placed in the boat. Sylvia and Charley embark,
Mr. Lanier the while looking on anxiously and uttering one or two
unheeded remonstrances; then the ferryman, who has been leaning on
his pole, listening to every thing with a broad grin on his dusky
face, pushes off. The boat rocks on the swift current, but he manages
it with great skill, and, when they are halfway across, Sylvia’s gay
tones—she has taken off her gloves and is dabbling with both hands in
the clear-tinted water—float back to us.
“O Charley, shall you ever forget the Laurel? Isn’t this delicious?”
[Illustration: Crossing the Laurel.]
“What strange ideas of enjoyment some people have!” says Mr. Lanier,
who is seated on the roots of a tree, fanning himself. “I don’t think
_I_ shall ever forget the Laurel; but as for seeing any thing delicious
in such a business—”
The rest of the trunks, Aunt Markham and myself, accompanied by this
gentleman, cross next. Eric and Rupert remain behind to superintend the
sending over of the carriages. We are landed in safety, despite one
or two alarms on Aunt Markham’s part. “O—h!” she says, in a prolonged
gasp, every time that the boat gives a lurch— and dug-outs are by no
means the steadiest crafts in the world. Mr. Lanier says nothing. He
only sits on a trunk and looks grave. He is not afraid—as he has taken
some trouble to explain—but he disapproves of running reckless risks,
and he objects to getting his feet wet in a muddy canoe.
Sylvia and Charley welcome us gayly. There is a prettily-shaded spring,
not more than five steps from the river, where they have seated
themselves and opened the lunch-basket—filled at Alexander’s, and not
emptied yet. There is a bottle of claret which Charley is opening with
his knife. “We drink to the passage of the Laurel!” he says. “May our
future adventures be as pleasant!”
One or two of the party object to this sentiment—but they drink the
claret. The children of the ferryman come in detachments to stare at
us and the proceedings on the other bank. A hungry-looking, soft-eyed
hound draws near and is fed generously by Sylvia. We talk and laugh and
watch the carriages being brought over in pieces—first the bodies, then
the wheels—and applaud the gallant horses that come out dripping and
shining from their bath. Even Mr. Lanier begins to admit that there is
some pleasure in all this. Walnut Mountain rises superbly behind us;
the clear waters of Laurel sweep swiftly in front; the wild, deep gorge
down which the latter flows is in shadow, while the afternoon sunlight
falls broadly on the rushing French Broad.
“If life were all like this,” says Sylvia, leaning back against a rock,
her hat off, her pretty hair in a curly tangle, “what a charming thing
it would be!”
“You seemed to think it particularly charming last night,” says Rupert,
with an explosion of boyish laughter. He has come to refresh himself
after his arduous exertions—his hat is on the back of his head, his
face aflame with color. “Did you see what trouble we had to get Brimmer
into the water?” he asks. “He knew as well as I did that he would have
to swim, and he didn’t fancy the idea.”
The passage of the Laurel, with the attendant trouble of putting the
carriages together again and reharnessing the horses, occupies two
hours. It was three o’clock when we paused on its farther bank; it is
five when Eric at last says, “All ready,” and we prepare to start for
the Springs.
“Good-by, Wash,” says Charley, addressing the ferryman, who, after
eleven trips across the river, seems disposed to think that rest from
labor is sweet. “May you live a thousand years, and may your shadow
never grow less! You have our blessing, and, if you should ever be
called upon to do a thing of this kind again, you’ll understand the
proper method.”
“Yes, sah—thanky, sah,” responds Wash, with a grin.
The drive to the Springs in the lovely afternoon is a marvel of
delight. It is a peculiarity of this road that one is never able
to determine with any degree of certainty what part of it is most
beautiful. Yet, if it were necessary to decide, the palm might be
awarded to that portion which lies beyond the waters of Laurel. There
are, if possible, more variety, more wildness, more blended majesty
and loveliness in these four miles than are to be found on any other
part of the river. The Walnut Mountains—a range of splendid heights,
rising to a ridge that stands for miles, level as a prairie, against
the sky—inclose the gorge, while the cliff-like rocks that line the
road assume some of their most imposing and picturesque forms. It
is here, also, that the famous islands of the French Broad—in which
Cherokee traditions placed a siren who lured hunters to destruction
by the sweetness of her voice—appear like spots of fairy verdure on
the rushing current. Rocks, islets, drooping foliage, glancing water,
golden sunshine streaming on all the grand vistas and curves of
beauty—how can one write of these things in terms that shall not seem
exaggerated to those who have never looked on them?
Presently we reach Deep Water—where the river, narrowed between two
walls of shelving rock, is said to be ninety feet deep, and flows
without a sound, almost without apparent motion. Released from this
confinement, it whirls more madly than ever over a magnificent ledge of
broken rock, and parts around Mountain Island. When it unites again,
it is more quiet. We follow one more sweeping bend, and the lovely
valley of the Warm Springs is before us.