“VIVE NAPOLEON!”
The boys had never seen anything like this before—such horrible heads
and faces—or heard such a din. The tightly-muzzled “Napoleon” rose on
his haunches, rolling his eyes wildly round. Accustomed to play with the
arksmen, he was not much afraid of anybody; but now he attempted to
bolt. The boys held him with difficulty.
They still thought that it was probably “fun.” But when those two
“redskins” rushed toward them with tomahawks they were alarmed, the
whoops were so ugly, the hatchets looked so wicked! Out came Moses’ old
dueling pistol, which—like a boy—he had taken with him under his
deerskin smock.
Lewis’ hands were so wound in the bear’s chain that he could not draw
his; but Wistar, with his heavy bag of mammoth back-bones, gave one
“Indian” a “smash” over the head that felled him.
Fortunately for Moses, trouble with the hair-trigger resulted in his
discharging the pistol harmlessly into the ground.
But the fracas now began in earnest, and it might have ended badly for
our young _Kaintocks_ had not a loud laugh been heard and a high-pitched
but powerful voice bawled in a queer mixture of Spanish and French:
“_Paz! Paz, mes enfants! Paz, mes petits!_”—“Peace! Peace, my children!”
This timely outcry came from a veranda close at hand, where a stout old
priest in a brown gown, and a tall, dark man, wearing a military cloak,
stood watching the revelers. Immediately the former came through the
throng, stretching out his arms, pushing them all aside as if they were
in very truth his “children.” His big, kind face shone in the torchlight
like a benevolent gargoyle, and his voice was as oil on angry waves.
“_Paz! Paz!_” he murmured, soothingly, in that odd jumble of French and
Andalusian. “_No sangre! Todos de bon coeur!_”
With his hands he patted one after another, even Napoleon, who snuffed
him thoughtfully through his muzzle.
Beyond doubt this was kind old “_Pere Antoine_,” who, for forty years,
was so amiable and ubiquitous a figure in the New Orleans of those early
days; “_Pere Antoine cheri_,” whom, although he was a Spaniard by birth,
the Creoles loved to adoration; the brown-gowned old Capuchin who
married all the young couples, white, black and yellow, and christened
all their children as fast as they came into the world; who heard and
sympathized with them in all their troubles, griefs and sins.
He was the unselfish, incorruptible guardian and lover of the city’s
poor, who handled alms-money by the hundredweight, but lived in a little
hut in the suburbs and slept on two bare boards; who used to have a
great brown leather bag at his girdle for a purse, often so full by
mid-week of voluntary silver and gold that, big as he was, he could
hardly carry it, yet always quite empty—such was his charity—by Sunday
evening; the “_cher_ Daddy Antoine” of the street gamins, who tagged
after him for his blessing and _lagniappe_—and never failed to get both.
The dark man in the military cloak, who laughed so heartily at the
warlike attitude of the three youngsters in coonskin caps, was Señor
Casa Calvo, the Spanish commissioner, who continued to live in New
Orleans after the transfer of the territory to the United States.
Feeling sure, from his kindly face and the respect accorded him by the
revelers, that they had made a friend worthy of confidence, the boys
spoke to the priest of Doctor Buchat, and by signs gave him to
understand that they were taking the bear to his house. Wistar also
showed him the two huge vertebræ.
So greatly piqued was their curiosity, that both the priest and Señor
Calvo accompanied the boys to Doctor Buchat’s house. So much animated
talk ensued over the mammoth skeleton that it was not till late in the
evening that the good doctor found quarters for Napoleon—so late,
indeed, that the old naturalist kept his youthful visitors overnight and
to breakfast on the following morning.
This was the boys’ last trip to the city, for that day Captain Royce had
completed his preparations for the long voyage up the river, not
forgetting numerous presents for the people at home. Wistar, Charlie
Hoyt and Lewis, who had saved their profits from the venture, also
bought similar gifts.
Of Kenton, MacAfee and Corson less kindly mention can be made. Like many
other arksmen of those times, they had squandered much of their money at
saloons and gaming-places in “The Swamp”; and becoming much
dissatisfied, they determined to quit their more prosperous comrades,
and go home on foot through the wilderness, by the “Natchez trail.”
Putting together what they had left from their dissipations, they bought
a horse and set off, Corson first riding for two hours, then hitching
the horse beside the path, and going on afoot. When Kenton and MacAfee
came up, MacAfee mounted and rode for two hours, then left the horse
hitched for Kenton, who was coming on behind. By the time Kenton had
ridden two hours he usually overtook Corson, who then took his second
turn. This was termed “whipsaw traveling”, and must have been hard for
the poor horse.
They expected to reach home in thirty-eight days, and long in advance of
their former comrades on the “horse-boat.” Captain Royce sent a message
home by them, and also a letter to Milly Ayer.
He had previously sent word home by two Cincinnati boats; neither of
which, however, had been able to forward the message. Nor did the word
or letter sent by Corson and his companions come to hand, for the three
arksmen never reached the settlement on the Ohio; what became of them is
not known. Savages or outlaws may have murdered them; or, owing to
dissatisfaction, they may have gone to “East Florida” or the Carolinas
to live.
The _Milly Ayer_, as her youthful captain had chivalrously christened
their new keel-boat, was not ready to leave New Orleans for the homeward
voyage until January 24th; and still another day was lost, waiting for a
passenger who had offered Captain Royce a hundred and fifty dollars to
be taken to St. Louis.
This passenger was none other than the waggish Lieutenant Charles
Grimsby, who is supposed to have carried a despatch from General
Wilkinson to Captain Amos Stoddard, the first American governor of St.
Louis. Captain Stoddard, however, did not assume the duties of office
until the 10th of March following.
The French settlers of St. Louis, indeed, were still in ignorance of the
sale and transfer of the Mississippi Valley to the United States, and
the horse-boat of our young arksmen was destined to bring them the first
positive intelligence of this event. Like the Creoles at New Orleans,
they were awaiting the arrival of a French army to take possession of
the country in the mighty name of Napoleon Bonaparte.
On the morning of the arksmen’s departure—January 25th—an old
acquaintance returned in great haste and jumped aboard the boat,
resolutely bent on rejoining his former messmates. This was none other
than Napoleon, the pet black bear, whom they had presented to Doctor
Buchat.
When first seen by Lewis, the bear was coming back at a clumsy gallop up
the levee, dragging his chain and pursued by a hundred young darkies,
who were hastening his flight with stones and clods. Instinct, or keen
scent, had brought him to the _Milly Ayer_. He leaped aboard, whimpering
from mingled fear and gladness at recognizing his old friends of the
ark.
But they, truth to say, did not want him. Word was at once sent to
Doctor Buchat. It then transpired that the worthy savant of
Good-Children Street was not desirous of recovering him; in fact, the
doctor begged that Captain Royce would make some other disposition of
the animal. He had turned cross in his new surroundings, and had been
near devouring one of the doctor’s maid servants.
Shadwell Lincoln suggested a rifle-ball as offering an easy way out of
the difficulty, but Moses and Lewis would not hear of this. They still
retained an affection for their former pet.
Finally, since the bear was aboard and objected strenuously to going
ashore, Lieutenant Grimsby proposed that he should take him to St. Louis
as a present to the new governor; and with this destination in view,
Napoleon began his return voyage up the Mississippi.
At last the long voyage began. The horses were fresh, the gear worked
well, and the little craft plowed her way gallantly up the river, making
fairly good time for many days, with few accidents.
Besides Lieutenant Grimsby, and Napoleon, twelve still remained from the
crew of seventeen, which gave four shifts of three men each for duty—the
lookout, the steersman, and the driver for the two horses.
Wary in all matters that touched the safety of his boat, Captain Royce
had protected the horse-power on each side with thick planks, that no
Indian or outlaw bullet might disable his team when at work. The stalls
aft, where the resting animals stood, as also the cabin for the crew,
were likewise covered in.
Twelve hours a day was the usual traveling time. They then tied up to
the bank for the night, at some point chosen with an eye for defense and
shelter.
Commanded with such sagacity and prudence, the _Milly Ayer_ reached the
confluence of the Ohio with the Mississippi on February 22nd, having
lost but four days, which had been spent in fishing and hunting to
replenish the food supply, and in foraging for the horses.
Here for once Marion Royce seems to have departed from his usual rule of
carefully avoiding quarrels. He had never forgiven the brutal assault
upon Corson at “Cairo.” Corson’s sightless eye had been a constant
reminder of the indignity.
The evening they reached the confluence of the rivers it was agreed to
give Cairo a surprise. We are at liberty to surmise, however, that the
waggish Lieutenant Grimsby had something to do with this practical joke.
His record afterward would seem to justify such a conjecture.
During the small hours of the night, after the thin mists began to rise
from the river and lowlands, the _Milly Ayer_, using its sweeps instead
of the horse-power, approached where the big “broadhorn”—which still
sheltered Cairo and its queer population—lay moored to the muddy bank.
Charlie Hoyt then quietly boarded it from the skiff.
At that hour every one appeared to be asleep. Stepping aboard
cautiously, Hoyt first secured his skiff, then made one end of a hawser,
which he had brought along, fast to the foot of a stanchion. This done,
he crept along the shoreward rail, and with a large, sharp knife,
severed the two old cables which held Cairo to the shore; then decamped
in the skiff as silently as he had come, paying out the hawser.
This was some three hundred feet in length, and as soon as Hoyt got back
to the keel he and his friends made the other end fast inboard, poled
off from the bank, and then, heading down-stream again, set the horses
at work with a free application of the whip.
The Ohio was then rising, and the old broadhorn was afloat at its
moorings. Yielding slowly to the pull from the horse-boat, it floated
out and away—as a coal barge is towed by a tug.
In great but silent glee, our boatmen touched up their horses. They
meant to tow Cairo down into the Mississippi, then cut adrift and let it
go on a voyage of discovery.
Before they had gone far, however, somebody waked up. First there were
drowsy shouts astern, then louder ones and more of them, and then indeed
pandemonium broke loose on the old craft. Lights glimmered in the misty
darkness and candles were seen dodging to and fro. And now, hearing the
clatter of the horse-power and the noise of the paddles from the keel,
the Cairoese began hailing vigorously, to learn what was the matter.
“Ho, the barge!” they cried. “You’ve run foul of us! You’ve carried us
clean away! Avast thar! Heave-to!”
They thought that some river craft had run into them, and did not for a
considerable time discover the hawser, but continued shouting for help
to get back to their moorings.
Nearly bursting with suppressed laughter, our arksmen said nothing, but
kept the horses hard at work. And with the strong current helping on,
both craft were now going down-stream at a great rate.
The Cairoese presently discovered the hawser, and divined the nature of
the prank that was being played on them. Their hails for aid and
information suddenly changed to threats and execrations not to be
recorded here.
Soon, too, a rifle flashed and a bullet sang past; then another, and
loads of buckshot began to whistle and to pepper the keel. Our delighted
arksmen were all lying low, however, and had the horses well protected.
They still held on, and kept the old broadhorn hurrying down the river
at twelve-knot speed.
But the denizens of Cairo were not to be long trifled with. Many of them
had experience as rivermen, and some were desperate characters. Instead
of casting off the hawser, or cutting loose, numbers of them suddenly
began hauling their end of it inboard, and despite the draft on it, soon
shortened the distance between the two craft, with the evident design of
boarding the horse-boat.
But this was what Captain Royce and Shadwell Lincoln had been looking
for, and before much progress had been made, the former quietly cut
adrift himself, and veering off, let Cairo go on its involuntary voyage
down-stream.
Rifles still continued to crack, and not a few bullets came aboard the
_Milly Ayer_. Captain Royce got away from his queer “tow” without much
difficulty, however, and when day dawned was ten miles on his way up the
Mississippi, bound for St. Louis.
It is said that Cairo did not get back to its former moorings for a week
or more. And for years afterward rivermen were wont to relate the story
of the joke which “Mack” Royce played on the “town.”
The _Milly Ayer_ was five days going from the confluence of the Ohio up
to St. Louis. But, at a little before noon on the 27th, it arrived in
sight of the pretty clearing on the west bank of the Mississippi, where
stood the hundred and eighty houses of squared logs which comprised the
St. Louis of 1803.
Pierre Laclede, a French trader, cleared a site and built the first
houses here in 1764. In 1803 the houses of the French traders and
principal citizens stood along Main Street, each at the center of what
is now a city block, surrounded by high palisades, or stone walls, for
defensive purposes. Fruit and vegetable gardens were within these
enclosures. There were two small taverns, a bakery, two smithies and two
grist-mills. Many of the people were traders, and kept a stock of goods
at their houses.
The luxuries, and even the necessities, of life were excessively dear;
coffee was two dollars a pound, and sugar equally high-priced. A
knowledge of this had led Captain Royce to lay in a stock of these
staples, after consenting to take Lieutenant Grimsby as a passenger.
And, as the event proved, he was able to clear a dollar a pound on four
quintals of each.
At the outset, however, a mad prank on the part of the lieutenant came
near getting them in trouble. Knowing that the French at St. Louis
cherished a vast admiration for Napoleon Bonaparte, and were expecting
that he would shortly take possession of the Mississippi Valley, Grimsby
bethought himself—since their pet bear was named Napoleon—to have some
sport from the coincidence. He said nothing to Captain Royce, but
persuaded Lewis and Moses to assist him, and told them what to shout as
they drew in to the landing-place.
[Illustration:
“NAPOLEON IS HERE! VIVE NAPOLEON!”]
In those days the arrival of a keel-boat from New Orleans was an event.
Not more than ten came up in the course of a season. As soon as the
_Milly Ayer_ was sighted, nearly the whole population came running to
the river bank, and were both astonished and immensely delighted to see
Moses and Lewis waving the tricolor from the top of the deck-house and
hear them shouting:
“_Vive Napoleon!_” “_Napoleon est ici!_” (Napoleon is here!) “_Napoleon
chez vous!_”
This was sufficiently bad French, but it was understood. And the effect
ashore was tremendous!
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