THE RIVER JOURNEY
"Best pour a little of this down his throat. It'll cut an' burn,
but if there's a spark o' life left in him it'll set it to blazin'."
Harry became conscious of the "cutting" and "burning," and, struggling
weakly, he sat up.
"That's better," continued the deep, masculine voice. "You've been
layin' on your face, lettin' the Kentucky River run out of your mouth,
while we was poundin' you on the back to increase the speed o' the
current. It's all out o' you now, an' you're goin' to keep your young
life."
The man who spoke was standing almost over Harry, holding a flask in one
hand and a lantern in the other. He was obviously a mountaineer, tall,
with powerful chest and shoulders, and a short red beard. Near him
stood a stalwart boy about Harry's own age. They were in the middle of
a raft which had been pulled to the south side of the Kentucky and then
tied to the shore.
Harry started to speak, but the words stopped at his lips. His weakness
was still great.
"Wa'al," said the man, whimsically. "What was it? Sooicide? Or did
you fall in the river, bein' awkward? Or was you tryin' to swim the
stream, believin' it was fun to do it? What do you think, Ike?"
"It wasn't no sooicide," replied the youth whom he had called Ike.
"Boys don't kill theirse'ves. An' it wasn't no awkwardness, 'cause he
don't look like the awkward kind. An' I guess he wasn't tryin' to swim
the Kentucky, else he would have took off his clothes."
"Which cuts out all three o' my guesses, leavin' me nothin' to go on.
Now, I ain't in the habit of pickin' floatin' an' unconscious boys out
o' the middle o' the river, an' that leaves me in unpleasant doubt,
me bein' of an inquirin' turn o' mind."
"It was murder," said Harry, at last finding strength to speak.
"Murder!" exclaimed the man and boy together.
"Yes, murder, that is, an attempt at it. A man set upon me to kill me,
and in the struggle we fell in the river, which, with your help, saved
my life. Look here!"
He tore open his coat and shirt, revealing his chest, which looked like
pounded beef.
"Somebody has shorely been gettin' in good hard licks on you," said the
man sympathetically, "an' I reckon you're tellin' nothin' but the truth,
these bein' such times as this country never heard of before. My name's
Sam Jarvis, an' I came with this raft from the mountains. This lunkhead
here is my nephew, Ike Simmons. We was driftin' along into Frankfort as
peaceful as you please, an' a singin' with joy 'cause our work was about
over. I hears a splash an' says I to Ike, 'What's that?' Says he to me,
'I dunno.' Says I to Ike ag'in, 'Was it a big fish?' Says he to me
ag'in, 'I dunno.' He's gittin' a repytation for bein' real smart
'cause he's always sayin, 'I dunno,' an' he's never wrong. Then I sees
somethin' with hair on top of it floatin' on the water. Says I, 'Is
that a man's head?' Says he, 'I dunno.' But he reaches away out from
the raft, grabs you with one hand by them brown locks o' yours, an'
hauls you in. I guess you owe your life all right enough to this
lunkhead, Ike, my nephew, the son o' my sister Jane."
Ike grinned sympathetically.
"Ain't it time to offer him some dry clothes, Uncle Sam?" he asked.
"Past time, I reckon," replied Jarvis, "but I forgot it askin' questions,
me havin' such an inquirin' turn o' mind."
Harry rose, with the help of a strong and friendly hand that Jarvis lent
him. His chest felt dreadfully sore. Every breath pained him, and all
the strength seemed to have gone from his body.
"I don't know what became o' the other feller," said Jarvis. "Guess he
must have swum out all by hisself."
"He undoubtedly did so," replied Harry. "He wasn't hurt, and I fancy
that he's some distance from Frankfort by this time. My name is Kenton,
Harry Kenton, and I'm the son of Colonel George Kenton, who is here in
Frankfort helping to push the ordinance of secession. You've saved my
life and he'd repay you."
"We don't need no money," said Jarvis shortly. "Me an' Ike here will
have a lot of money when we sell this raft, and we don't lack for
nothin'."
"I didn't mean money," said Harry, understanding their pride and
independence. "I meant in some other ways, including gratitude.
I've been fished out of a river, and a fisherman is entitled to the
value of his catch, isn't he?"
"We'll talk about that later on, but me bein' of an inquirin' turn o'
mind, I'm wonderin' what your father will say about you when he sees
you. I guess I better doctor you up a little before you leave the raft."
Ike returned from the tiny cabin with an extra suit of clothes of his
own, made of the roughest kind of gray jeans, home knit yarn socks and
a pair of heavy brogan shoes. A second trip brought underclothing of
the same rough quality, but Harry changed into them gladly. Jarvis
meanwhile produced a bottle filled with a brown liquid.
"You may think this is hoss liniment," he said, "an' p'r'aps it has been
used for them purposes, but it's better fur men than animiles. Ole
Aunt Suse, who is 'nigh to a hundred, got it from the Injuns an' it's
warranted to kill or cure. It'll sting at first, but just you stan' it,
an' afore long it will do you a power o' good."
Harry refused to wince while the mountaineer kneaded his bruised chest
with the liquid ointment. The burning presently gave way to a soothing
sensation.
Harry noticed that neither Jarvis nor Ike asked him the name of his
opponent nor anything at all about the struggle or its cause. They
treated it as his own private affair, of which he could speak or not as
he chose. He had noticed this quality before in mountaineers. They
were among the most inquisitive of people, but an innate delicacy would
suppress questions which an ordinary man would not hesitate to ask.
"Button up your shirt an' coat," said Jarvis at last, "an' you'll find
your chest well in a day or two. Your bein' so healthy helps you a lot.
Feelin' better already, boy? Don't 'pear as if you was tearin' out a
lung or two every time you drawed breath?"
"I'm almost well," said Harry gratefully, "and, Mr. Jarvis, I'd like to
leave my wet clothes here to dry while I'm gone. I'll be back in the
morning with my father."
"All right," said Samuel Jarvis, "but I wish you'd come bright an'
early. Me an' this lunkhead, Ike, my nephew, ain't used to great cities,
an' me bein' of an inquirin' turn o' mind we'll be anxious to see all
that's to be seed in Frankfort."
"Don't you fear," replied Harry, full of gratitude, "I'll be back soon
in the morning."
"But don't furgit one thing," continued Jarvis. "I hear there's a
mighty howdy-do here about the state goin' out o' the Union or stayin'
in it. The mountains are jest hummin' with talk about the question,
but don't make me take any part in it. Me an' this lunkhead, Ike,
my nephew, are here jest to sell logs, not to decide the fate o' states."
"I'll remember that, too," said Harry, as he shook hands warmly with
both of them, left the raft, climbed the bank and entered Frankfort.
The little town had few lights in those days and the boy moved along in
the dusk, until he came near the Capitol. There he saw the flame of
lamps shining from several windows, and he knew that men were still at
work, striving to draw a state into the arms of the North or the South.
He paused a few minutes at the corner of the lawn and drew many long,
deep breaths. The soreness was almost gone from his chest. The oil
with which Samuel Jarvis had kneaded his bruises was certainly wonderful,
and he hoped that "Aunt Suse," who got it from the Indians, would fill
out her second hundred years.
He reached the hotel without meeting any one whom he knew, and went up
the stairway to his room, where he found his father writing at a small
desk. Colonel Kenton glanced at him, and noticed at once his change of
costume.
"What does that clothing mean, Harry?" he asked. "It's jeans, and it
doesn't fit."
"I know it's jeans, and I know it doesn't fit, but I was mighty glad to
get it, as everything else I had on was soaked with water."
Colonel Kenton raised his eyebrows.
"I was hunting the bottom of the Kentucky River," continued Harry.
"Fall in?"
"No, thrown in."
Colonel Kenton raised his eyebrows higher than ever.
Harry sat down and told him the whole story, Colonel Kenton listening
intently and rarely interrupting.
"It was great good fortune that the men on the raft came just at the
right time," he said, when Harry had finished. "There are bad
mountaineers and good mountaineers--Jarvis and his nephew represent one
type and Skelly the other. Skelly hates us because we drove back his
band when they attacked our house. In peaceful times we could have him
hunted out and punished, but we cannot follow him into his mountains
now. We shall be compelled to let this pass for the present, but as
your life would not be safe here you must leave Frankfort, Harry."
"I can't go back to Pendleton," said the boy, "and stay there, doing
nothing."
"I had no such purpose. I know that you are bound to be in active life,
and I was already meditating a longer journey for you. Listen clearly
to me, Harry. The fight here is about over, and we are going to fail.
It is by the narrowest of margins, but still we will fail. We who are
for the South know it with certainty. Kentucky will refuse to go out
of the Union, and it is a great blow to us. I shall have to go back to
Pendleton for a week or two and then I will take a command. But since
you are bent upon service in the field, I want you to go to the East."
Harry's face flushed with pleasure. It was his dearest wish. Colonel
Kenton, looking at him out of the corner of his eyes, smiled.
"I fancied that you would be quite willing to go," he said. "I had a
letter this morning from a man who likes you well, Colonel Leonidas
Talbot. He is at Richmond and he says that President Davis, his cabinet,
and all the equipment of a capital will arrive there about the last of
the month. The enemy is massing before Washington and also toward the
West in the Maryland and Virginia mountains. A great battle is sure
to be fought in the summer and he wants you on his staff. General
Beauregard, whom you knew at Charleston, is to be in supreme command.
Can you leave here in a day or two for Richmond?"
Harry's eyes were sparkling, and the flush was still in his face.
"I could go in an hour," he replied.
"Such an abrupt departure as that is not needed. Moreover the choice
of a route is of great importance and requires thought. If you were to
take one of the steamers up the Ohio, say to Wheeling, in West Virginia,
you would almost surely fall into the hands of the Northern troops.
The North also controls about all the railway connections there are
between Kentucky and Virginia."
"Then I must ride across the mountains."
"These new friends of yours who saved you from the river, are they going
to stay long in Frankfort?"
"Not more than a day or two, I think. I gathered from what Jarvis said
that they were not willing to remain long where trouble was thick."
"How are their sympathies placed in this great division of our people?"
Harry laughed.
"I inferred," he replied, "from what Jarvis said that they intend to
keep the peace. He intimated to me that the silence of the mountains
was more welcome to him than the cause of either North or South."
Colonel Kenton smiled again.
"Perhaps he is wiser than the rest of us," he said, "but in any event,
I think he is our man. He will sell his logs and pull back up the
Kentucky in a small boat. I gather from what you say that he came
down the most southerly fork of the Kentucky, which, in a general way,
is the route you wish to take. You can go with him and his nephew until
they reach their home in the mountains. Then you must take a horse,
strike south into the old Wilderness Road, cross the ranges into
Virginia and reach Richmond. Are you willing?"
He spoke as father to son, and also as man to man.
"I'm more than willing," replied Harry. "I don't think we could choose
a better way. Jarvis and his nephew, I know, will be as true as steel,
and I'd like that journey in the boat."
"Then it's settled, provided Jarvis and his nephew are willing. We'll
see them before breakfast in the morning, and now I think you'd better
go to sleep. A boy who was fished out of the Kentucky only an hour or
two ago needs rest."
Harry promptly went to bed, but sleep was long in coming. Their mission
to Frankfort had failed, and action awaited his young footsteps.
Virginia, the mother state of his own, was a mighty name to him, and men
already believed the great war would be decided there. The mountains,
too, with their wild forests and streams beckoned to him. The old,
inherited blood within him made the great pulses leap. But he slept at
last and dreamed of far-off things.
Harry and his father rose at the first silver shoot of dawn, and went
quickly through the deserted street to a quiet cove in the Kentucky,
where Samuel Jarvis had anchored his raft. It was a crisp morning,
with a tang in the air that made life feel good. A thin curl of smoke
was rising from the raft, showing that the man and his nephew were
already up, and cooking in the little hut on the raft.
Harry stepped upon the logs and his father followed him. Jarvis was
just pouring coffee from a tin pot into a tin cup, and Ike was turning
over some strips of bacon in an iron skillet on an iron stove. Both of
them, watchful like all mountaineers, had heard the visitors coming,
but they did not look up until they were on the raft.
"Mornin'," called Jarvis cheerfully. "Look, Ike, it's the big fish that
we hooked out of the river last night, an' he's got company."
"I want to thank you for saving my son's life," said the Colonel.
"I reckon, then, that you're Colonel George Kenton," said Jarvis.
"Wa'al, you don't owe us no thanks. I'm of an inquirin' turn of mind,
an' whenever I see a man or boy floatin' along in the river I always
fish him out, just to see who an' what he is. My curiosity is pow'ful
strong, colonel, an' it leads me to do a lot o' things that I wouldn't
do if it wasn't fur it. Set an' take a bite with us. This air is
nippin' an' it makes my teeth tremenjous sharp."
"We're with you," said the colonel, who was adaptable, and who saw at
once that Jarvis was a man of high character. "It's cool on the river
and that coffee will warm one up mighty well."
"It's fine coffee," said Jarvis proudly. "Aunt Suse taught me how to
make it. She learned, when you didn't git coffee often, an' you had to
make the most of it when you did git it."
"Who is Aunt Suse?"
"Aunt Susan, or Suse as we call her fur short, is back at home in the
hills. She's a good hundred, colonel, an' two or three yars more to
boot, I reckon, but as spry as a kitten. Full o' tales o' the early
days an' the wild beasts an' the Injuns. She says you couldn't make up
any story of them times that ain't beat by the truth. When she come up
the Wilderness Road from Virginia in the Revolution she was already a
young woman. She's knowed Dan'l Boone and Simon Kenton an' all them
gran' old fellers. A tremenjous interestin' old lady is my Aunt Suse,
colonel."
"I've no doubt of it, Mr. Jarvis." said Colonel Kenton, "but I don't
think I can wait a second longer for a cup of that coffee of yours.
It smells so good that if you don't give it to me I'll have to take it
from you."
Jarvis grinned cheerfully. Harry saw that his father had already made a
skillful appeal to the mountaineer's pride.
"Ike, you lunkhead," he said to his nephew, "I told the colonel to set,
but we did'nt give him anythin' to set on. Pull up them blocks o' wood
fur him an' his son. Now you'll take breakfast with us, won't you,
colonel? The bacon an' the corn cakes are ready, too."
"Of course we will," said the colonel, "and gladly, too. It makes me
young again to eat this way in the fresh air of a cool morning."
Samuel Jarvis shone as a host. The breakfast was served on a smooth
stump put on board for that purpose. The coffee was admirable, and the
bacon and thin corn cakes were cooked beautifully. Good butter was
spread over the corn cakes, and Harry and his father were surprised
at the number they ate. Ike, addressed by his uncle variously and
collectively as "lunkhead," "nephew," and "Ike," served. He rarely
spoke, but always grinned. Harry found later that while he had little
use for his vocal organs he invariably enjoyed life.
"Colonel," said Jarvis, at about the tenth corn cake, "be you fellers
down here a-goin' to fight?"
"I suppose we are, Mr. Jarvis!"
"An' is your son thar goin' right into the middle of it?"
"I can't keep him from it, Mr. Jarvis, but he isn't going to stay here
in Kentucky. Other plans have been made for him. When are you going
back up the Kentucky, Mr. Jarvis?"
"This raft was bargained fur before it started. All I've got to do is
to turn it over to its new owners today, go to the bank an' get the
money. Then me an' this lunkhead, Ike, my nephew, both bein' of an
inquirin' mind, want to do some sight-seein', but I reckon we'll start
back in about two days in the boat that you see tied to the stern of the
raft."
"Would you take a passenger in the boat? It's a large one."
Samuel Jarvis pursed his lips.
"Depends on who it is," he replied. "It takes a lot o' time, goin' up
stream, to get back to our start, an' a cantankerous passenger in as
narrow a place as a rowboat would make it mighty onpleasant for me an'
this lunkhead, Ike, my nephew. Wouldn't it, Ike?"
Ike grinned and nodded.
"The passenger that I'm speaking of wouldn't be a passenger altogether,"
said Colonel Kenton. "He'd like to be one of the crew also, and I don't
think he'd make trouble. Anyway, he's got a claim on you already.
Having fished him out of the river, where he was unconscious, it's your
duty to take care of him for a while. It's my son Harry, who wants to
get across the mountains to Virginia, and we'll be greatly obliged to
you if you'll take him."
Colonel Kenton had a most winning manner. He already liked Jarvis,
and Jarvis liked him.
"I reckon your son is all right," said Jarvis, "an' if he gits
cantankerous we kin just pitch him overboard into the Kentucky. But I
can't undertake sich a contract without consultin' my junior partner,
this lunkhead, my nephew, Ike Simmons. Ike, are you willin' to take
Colonel Kenton's son back with us? Ef you're willin' say 'Yes,' ef
you ain't willin' say 'No.'"
Ike said nothing, but grinned and nodded.
"The resolution is passed an' Harry Kenton is accepted," said Jarvis.
"We start day after tomorrow mornin', early."
Breakfast was finished and Colonel Kenton rose and thanked them.
He still said nothing about pay. But after he and Harry had entered
the town, he said:
"You couldn't have better friends, Harry. Both the man and boy are as
true as steel, and, as they have no intention of taking part in the war,
they will just suit you as traveling companions."
They spent the larger part of that day in buying the boy's equipment,
doing it as quietly as possible, as the colonel wished his son to depart
without attracting any notice. In such times as those secrecy was much
to be desired. A rifle, pistols, plenty of ammunition, an extra suit of
clothes, a pair of blankets, and a good supply of money were all that he
took. One small package which contained a hundred dollars in gold coins
he put in an inside pocket of his waistcoat.
"You are to give that to Jarvis just after you start," said the colonel.
"We cannot pay him directly for saving you, because he will not take it,
but you can insist that this is for your passage."
They were all at the cove before dawn on the appointed morning. Colonel
Kenton was to say Harry's good-bye for him to his friends. The whole
departure had been arranged with so much skill that they alone knew
of it. The boat was strong, shaped well, and had two pairs of oars.
A heavy canvas sheet could be erected as a kind of awning or tent in the
rear, in case of rain. They carried plenty of food, and Jarvis said
that in addition they were more than likely to pick up a deer or two on
the way. Both he and Ike carried long-barreled rifles.
The three stepped into the boat.
"Good-bye, Harry," said the colonel, reaching down a strong hand that
trembled.
"Good-bye, father," said Harry, returning the clasp with another strong
hand that trembled also.
People in that region were not demonstrative. Family affection was
strong, but they were reared on the old, stern Puritan plan, and the
handshake and the brief words were all. Then Jarvis and his silent
nephew bent to the oars and the boat shot up the deep channel of the
Kentucky.
Harry looked back, and in the dusk saw his father still standing at the
edge of the cove. He waved a hand and the colonel waved back. Then
they disappeared around a curve of the hills, and the first light of
dawn began to drift over the Kentucky.
Harry was silent for a long time. He was becoming used to sudden and
hard traveling and danger, but the second parting with his father moved
him deeply. Since he had been twelve or thirteen years of age, they
had been not only father and son, but comrades, and, in the intimate
association, he had acquired more of a man's mind than was usual in
one of his years. He felt now, since he was going to the east and the
colonel was remaining in the west, that the parting was likely to be
long--perhaps forever.
It was no morbid feeling. It was the consciousness that a great and
terrible war was at hand. Although but a youth, he had been in the
forefront of things. He had been at Montgomery and Sumter, and he had
seen the fire and zeal of the South. He had been at Frankfort, too,
and he had seen how the gathering force of the massive North had refused
to be moved. His father and his friends, with all their skill and force,
strengthened by the power of kinship and sentiment, had been unable to
take Kentucky out of the Union.
Harry was so thoroughly absorbed in these thoughts that he did not
realize how very long he remained silent. He was sitting in the stern
of the boat, with a face naturally joyous, heavily overcast. Jarvis
and Ike were rowing and with innate delicacy they did not disturb him.
They, too, said nothing. But they were powerful oarsmen, and they sent
the heavy skiff shooting up the stream. The Kentucky, a deep river at
any time, was high from the spring floods, and the current offered but
little resistance. The man of mighty sinews and the boy of sinews
almost as mighty, pulled a long and regular stroke, without any
quickening of the breath.
The dawn deepened into the full morning. The silver of the river became
blue, with a filmy gold mist spread over it by the rising sun. High
banks crested with green enclosed them on either side, and beyond lay
higher hills, their slopes and summits all living green. The singing
of birds came from the bushes on the banks, and a sudden flash of flame
told where a scarlet tanager had crossed.
The last house of Frankfort dropped behind them, and soon the boat
was shooting along the deep channel cut by the Kentucky through the
Bluegrass, then the richest and most beautiful region of the west,
abounding in famous men and in the height of its glory. It had never
looked more splendid. The grass was deeply luxuriant and young flowers
bloomed at the water's edge. The fields were divided by neat stone
fences and far off Harry saw men working on the slopes.
Jarvis and Ike were still silent. The man glanced at Harry and saw that
he had not yet come from his absorption, but Samuel Jarvis was a joyous
soul. He was forty years old, and he had lived forty happy years.
The money for his lumber was in his pocket, he did not know ache or pain,
and he was going back to his home in an inmost recess of the mountains,
from which high point he could view the civil war passing around him
and far below. He could restrain himself no longer, and lifting up his
voice he sang.
But the song, like nearly all songs the mountaineers sing, had a
melancholy note.
"'Nita, 'Nita, Juanita,
Be my own fair bride."
He sang, and the wailing note, confined between the high walls of the
stream, took on a great increase in volume and power. Jarvis had one
of those uncommon voices sometimes found among the unlearned, a deep,
full tenor without a harsh note. When he sang he put his whole heart
into the words, and the effect was often wonderful. Harry roused
himself suddenly. He was hearing the same song that he had heard the
night he went into the river locked fast in Skelly's arms.
"'Nita, 'Nita, Juanita."
rang the tenor note, rising and falling and dying away in wailing echoes,
as the boat sped on. Then Harry resolutely turned his face to the
future. The will has a powerful effect over the young, and when he made
the effort to throw off sadness it fell easily from him. All at once he
was embarked with good comrades upon a journey of tremendous interest.
Jarvis noticed the change upon his face, but said nothing. He pulled
with a long, slow stroke, suited to the solemn refrain of Juanita,
which he continued to pour forth with his soul in every word.
They went on, deeper into the Bluegrass. The blue sky above them was
now dappled with golden clouds, and the air grew warmer, but Jarvis and
his nephew showed no signs of weariness. When Harry judged that the
right time had come he asked to relieve Ike at the oar. Ike looked
at Jarvis and Jarvis nodded to Ike. Then Ike nodded to Harry, which
indicated consent.
But Harry, before taking the oar, drew a small package from his pocket
and handed it to Jarvis.
"My father asked me to give you this," he said, "as a remembrance and
also as some small recompense for the trouble that I will cause you on
this trip."
Jarvis took it, and heard the heavy coins clink together.
"I know without openin' it that this is money," he said, "but bein' of
an inquirin' turn o' mind I reckon I've got to look into it an' count
it."
He did so deliberately, coin by coin, and his eyes opened a little at
the size of the sum.
"It's too much," he said. "Besides you take your turn at the oars."
"It's partly as a souvenir," said Harry, "and it would hurt my father
very much if you did not take it. Besides, I should have to leave the
boat the first time it tied up, if you refuse."
Jarvis looked humorously at him.
"I believe you are a stubborn sort of feller," he said, "but somehow
I've took a kind o' likin' to you. I s'pose it's because I fished you
out o' the river. You always think that the fish you ketch yourself are
the best. Do you reckon that's the reason why we like him, Ike?"
Ike nodded.
"Then, bein' as we don't want to lose your company, an' seein' that you
mean what you say, we'll keep the gold, though half of it must go to
that lunkhead, Ike, my nephew."
"Then it's settled," said Harry, "and we'll never say another word about
it. You agree to that?"
"Yes," replied Jarvis, and Ike nodded.
Harry took his place at the oar. Although he was not as skillful as Ike,
he did well, and the boat sped on upon the deep bosom of the Kentucky.
The work was good for Harry. It made his blood flow once more in a full
tide and he felt a distinct elation.
Jarvis began singing again. He changed from Juanita to "Poor Nelly
Gray":
"And poor Nelly Gray, she is up in Heaven, they say,
And I shall never see my darling any more."
Harry found his oar swinging to the tune as Ike's had swung to that of
Juanita, and he did not feel fatigue. They met few people upon the
river. Once a raft passed them, but Jarvis, looking at it keenly,
said that it had come down from one of the northern forks of the
Kentucky and not from his part of the country. They saw skiffs two or
three times, but did not stop to exchange words with their occupants,
continuing steadily into the heart of the Bluegrass.
They relieved one another throughout the day and at night, tired but
cheerful, drew up their boat at a point, where there was a narrow
stretch of grass between the water and the cliff, with a rope ferry
three or four hundred yards farther on.
"We'll tie up the boat here, cook supper and sleep on dry ground,"
said Jarvis.