IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT THE NAVIGATION OF THE RIVER IS DIFFICULT AND
DANGEROUS
Harry was astounded at this information. Ben was exhausted, as though
he had been running very hard; besides, he was much agitated--more so
than the circumstances of the occasion seemed to justify. In
connection with the threat which his companion had uttered that day,
these appearances seemed to point to a solution of the burning
building. He readily understood that Ben, in revenge for the indignity
the squire had cast upon him, had set the barn on fire, and was now
running away by the light of it.
This was more than he had bargained for. However ill-natured he felt
towards the squire for his proposal to send him to Jacob Wire's, it
never occurred to him to retaliate by committing a crime. His ideas of
Christian charity and of forgiveness were but partially developed; and
though he could not feel right towards his powerful enemy, he felt no
desire to punish him so severely as Ben had done.
His companion gave him a short answer, and manifested no disposition
to enlarge upon the subject; and for several minutes both maintained a
profound silence.
The boat, drifting slowly with the current, was passing from the pond
into the narrow river, and it required all Harry's skill to keep her
from striking the banks on either side. His mind was engrossed with
the contemplation of the new and startling event which had so suddenly
presented itself to embarrass his future operations. Ben was a
criminal in the eye of the law, and would be subjected to a severe
penalty if detected.
"I shouldn't have thought you would have done that," Harry observed,
when the silence became painful to him.
"Done what?" asked Ben, sharply.
"Set the barn afire."
"Who said I set it afire?"
"Well, I can see through a millstone when there is a hole in it."
"I didn't say I set the barn afire."
"I know you didn't; but you said you meant to pay the squire off for
what he had done to you."
"I mean to."
"Haven't you done it already?"
"I didn't say I had," answered Ben, who was evidently debating with
himself whether he should admit Harry to his confidence.
"But didn't you set the barn afire?"
"What if I did?"
"Why, I should say you run a great risk."
"I don't care for that."
"I see the reason now, why you wouldn't tell me what you was going to
do before."
"We are in for it now, Harry. I meant to pay off the squire, and--"
"Then you did set the barn afire?"
"I didn't say so; and, more than that, I don't mean to say so. If you
can see through a millstone, why, just open your eyes--that's all."
"I am sorry you did it, Ben."
"No whining, Harry; be a man."
"I mean to be a man; but I don't think there was any need of burning
the barn."
"I do; I couldn't leave Redfield without squaring accounts with Squire
Walker."
"Where are you going, Ben?"
"To Boston, of course."
"How shall we get there?"
"We will go by the river, as far as we can; then take to the road."
"But this is George Leman's boat--isn't it?"
"Yes."
"You hooked it?"
"Of course I did; you don't suppose I should mind trifles at such a
time as this! But he can have it again, when I have done with it."
"What was the use of taking the boat?"
"In the first place, don't you think it is easier to sail in a boat
than to walk? And in the second place, the river runs through the
woods for five or six miles below Pine Pleasant; so that no one will
be likely to see us. We shall get off without being found out."
"But the river is not deep enough. It is full of rocks about three
miles down."
"We won't mind them. We can keep her clear of the rocks well enough.
When I was down the river last spring, you couldn't see a single rock
above water, and we don't draw more than six inches."
"But that was in the spring, when the water was high. I don't believe
we can get the boat through."
"Yes, we can; at any rate, we can jump ashore and tow her down,"
replied Ben, confidently, though his calculations were somewhat
disturbed by Harry's reasoning.
"There is another difficulty, Ben," suggested Harry.
"O, there are a hundred difficulties; but we mustn't mind them."
"They will miss the boat, and suspect at once who has got it."
"We shall be out of their reach when they miss it."
"I heard George Leman say he was going a fishing in her to-morrow."
"Did you? Then why didn't you say so before?" retorted Ben, angrily.
"Because you didn't tell me what you were going to do. How could I?"
"Never mind; it is no use to cry for spilt milk. We will make the best
of it."
"We are in for it now."
"That we are; and if you only stick by me, it will all come out right.
If we get caught, you must keep a stiff upper lip."
"Never fear me."
"And, above all, don't blow on me."
"Of course I won't."
"Whatever happens, promise that you will stick by me."
"I will, Ben."
"That's a good fellow, Harry. On that, we will take a bit of luncheon,
and have a good time of it."
As he spoke, Ben drew out from under the seat in the bow a box filled
with bread and cheese.
"You see we are provisioned for a cruise, Harry," added Ben, as he
offered the contents of the box to his companion. "Here is enough to
last us two or three days."
"But you don't mean to keep on the river so long as that?"
"I mean to stick to the boat as long as the navigation will permit,"
replied Ben, with more energy than he had before manifested, for he
was recovering from the perturbation with which the crime he had
committed filled his mind.
"There is a factory village, with a dam across the river, six or seven
miles below here."
"I know it; but perhaps we can get the boat round the dam in the night
time, and continue our voyage below. Don't you remember that piece in
the Reader about John Ledyard--how he went down the Connecticut River
in a canoe?"
"Yes; and you got your idea from that?"
"I did; and I mean to have a first rate time of it."
Ben proceeded to describe the anticipated pleasures of the river
voyage, as he munched his bread and cheese; and Harry listened with a
great deal of satisfaction. Running away was not such a terrible
thing, after all. It was both business and pleasure, and his
imagination was much inflated by the brilliant prospect before him.
There was something so novel and exciting in the affair, that his
first experience was of the most delightful character.
He forgot the crime his companion had committed, and had almost come
to regard the burning of the squire's barn as a just and proper
retribution upon him for conspiring against the rights and privileges
of young America.
My young readers may not know how easy it is even for a good boy to
learn to love the companionship of those who are vicious, and disposed
to take the road which leads down to moral ruin and death. Those lines
of Pope, which are familiar to almost every school boy, convey a great
truth, and a thrilling warning to those who first find themselves
taking pleasure in the society of wicked men, or wicked boys:
"Vice is a monster of so frightful mien
As to be hated, needs but to be seen;
But seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace."
Now, I have not represented my hero, at this stage of the story, as a
very good boy, and it did not require much time to familiarize him
with the wickedness which was in Ben's heart, and which he did not
take any pains to conceal. The transition from enduring to pitying and
from that to embracing was sudden and easy, if, indeed, there was any
middle passage between the first and last stage.
I am sorry to say that an hour's fellowship with Ben, under the
exciting circumstances in which we find them, had led him to think Ben
a very good fellow, notwithstanding the crime he had committed. I
shall do my young reader the justice to believe he hopes Harry will be
a better boy, and obtain higher and nobler views of duty. It must be
remembered that Harry had never learned to "love God and man" on the
knee of an affectionate mother. He had long ago forgotten the little
prayers she had taught him, and none were said at the poorhouse. We
are sorry he was no better; but when we consider under what influences
he had been brought up, it is not strange that he was not a good boy.
Above every earthly good, we may be thankful for the blessing of a
good home, where we have been taught our duty to God, to our
fellow-beings, and to ourselves.
The young navigators talked lightly of the present and the future, as
the boat floated gently along through the gloomy forest. They heard
the Redfield clock strike twelve, and then one. The excitement had
begun to die out. Harry yawned, for he missed his accustomed sleep,
and felt that a few hours' rest in his bed at the poorhouse was even
preferable to navigating the river at midnight. Ben gaped several
times, and the fun was really getting very stale.
Those "who go down to the sea in ships," or navigate the river in
boats, must keep their eyes open. It will never do to slumber at the
helm; and Harry soon had a practical demonstration of the truth of the
proposition. He was so sleepy that he could not possibly keep his eyes
open; and Ben, not having the care of the helm, had actually dropped
off, and was bowing as politely as a French dancing master to his
companion in the stern. They were a couple of smart sailors, and
needed a little wholesome discipline to teach them the duty of those
who are on the watch.
The needed lesson was soon administered; for just as Ben was making
one of his lowest bows in his semi-conscious condition, the bow of the
boat ran upon a concealed rock, which caused her to keel over to one
side, and very gently pitch the sleeper into the river.
Of course, this catastrophe brought the commander of the expedition to
his senses, and roused the helmsman to a sense of his own delinquency,
though it is clear that, as there were no lighthouses on the banks of
the river, and the intricacies of the channel had never been defined
and charted for the benefit of the adventurous navigator, no human
forethought could have provided against the accident.
Harry put the boat about, and assisted his dripping shipmate on board
again. The ducking he had received did not operate very favorably upon
Ben's temper, and he roundly reproached his companion for his
carelessness. The steersman replied with becoming spirit to this
groundless charge, telling him he had better keep his eyes open the
rest of the night. Wet and chilly as he was, Ben couldn't help
growling; and both evidently realized that the affair was not half as
romantic as they had adjudged it to be an hour or two before.
"Never mind it, Ben. If we fail once let us try again--that's all."
"Try again? You want to drown me, don't you?" snarled Ben.
Harry assured him he did not, and called his attention to the sound of
dashing waters, which could now be plainly heard. They were
approaching the rocks, and it was certain from the noise that
difficult navigation was before them. Harry proposed to haul up by the
river's side, and wait for daylight; to which proposition Ben, whose
ardor was effectually cooled by the bath he had received, readily
assented.
Accordingly they made fast the painter to a tree on the shore, and
both of them disembarked. While Harry was gathering up a pile of dead
leaves for a bed, Ben amused himself by wringing out his wet clothes.
"Suppose we make a fire, Harry?" suggested Ben; and it would certainly
have been a great luxury to one in his damp condition.
"No; it will betray us," replied Harry, with alarm.
"Humph! It is easy enough for you to talk, who are warm and dry,"
growled Ben. "I am going to have a fire, anyhow."
In vain Harry protested. Ben had some matches in the boat, and in a
few minutes a cheerful fire blazed in the forest. As the leader of the
enterprise felt its glowing warmth his temper was sensibly impressed,
and he even had the hardihood to laugh at his late misfortune. But
Harry did not care just then whether his companion was pleasant or
sour, for he had stretched himself on his bed of leaves, and was in a
fair way to forget the trials and hardships of the voyage in the deep
sleep which makes it "all night" with a tired boy.
After Ben was thoroughly dried and warmed, he placed himself by the
side of his fellow-voyager, and both journeyed together through the
quiet shades of dreamland, leaving no wakeful eye to watch over the
interests of the expedition while they slumbered.