AN ANCIENT MARINER.
The clock in a neighboring kitchen was striking six, as we reached the
lower ferry-landing. The grass in the streets and under the old elms
was as wet with dew as though there had been a heavy shower during the
night. The village fishermen were just pulling in to the little pier,
returning from an early morning trip to their "traut-lines" down
stream. In a long wooden cage, which they towed astern, was a
fifty-pound sturgeon, together with several large cat-fish. They
kindly hauled their cage ashore, to show us the monsters, which they
said would probably be shipped, alive, to a Chicago restaurant which
they occasionally furnished with curiosities in their line. These
fishermen were rough-looking fellows in their battered hats and
ragged, dirty overcoats, with faces sadly in need of water and a
shave. They had a sad, pinched-up appearance as well, as though the
dense fog, which was but just now yielding to the influence of the
sun, had penetrated their bones and given them the chills. On engaging
them in friendly conversation about their calling, they exhibited good
manners and some knowledge of the outer world. Their business, they
said, was precarious and, as we could well see, involved much exposure
and hardship. Sometimes it meant a start at midnight, often amid
rainstorms, fogs, or chilling weather, with a hard pull back again
up-stream,--for their lines were all of them below Grand Detour; but
to return with an empty boat, sometimes their luck, was harder yet.
Knocking about in this way, all of the year around,--for their winters
were similarly spent upon the lower waters and bayous of the
Mississippi,--neither of them was ever thoroughly well. One was
consumptively inclined, he told me, and being an old soldier, was
receiving a small pension. A claim agent had him in hand, however, and
his thoughts ran largely upon the prospects of an increase by special
legislation. He seemed to have but little doubt that he would
ultimately succeed. When he came into this looked-for fortune, he
said, he would "quit knockin' 'round an' killin' myself fishin',"
settle down in Grand Detour for the balance of his days, raising his
own "garden sass, pigs, and cow;" and some fine day would make a trip
in his boat to the "old home in Injianny, whar I was raised an'
'listed in the war." His face fairly gleamed with pleasure as he thus
dwelt upon the flowers of fancy which the pension agent had cultivated
within him; and W---- sympathetically exclaimed, when we had swung
into the stream and bidden farewell to these men who followed the
calling of the apostles, that were she a congressman she would
certainly vote for the fisherman's claim, and make happy one more
heart in Grand Detour.
Now commences the Great Bend of the Rock River. The water circuit is
fourteen miles, the distance gained being but six by land. The stream
is broad and shallow, between palisades densely surmounted with trees
and covered thick with vines; great willow islands freely intersperse
the course; everywhere are evidences of ice-floes, which have blazed
the trees and strewn the islands with fallen trunks and driftwood,--a
tornado could not have created more general havoc. The visible houses,
few of them inviting in appearance, are miles apart. As had been
foretold at the village, the outlook for lodgings in this dismal
region is not at all encouraging. It was well that we had stopped at
Grand Detour.
Below the bend, where the country is more open, though the banks are
still deep-cut, the highway to Dixon skirts the river, and for several
miles we kept company with the stage.
Dixon was sighted at 10 o'clock. A circus had pitched its tents upon
the northern bank, just above the dam, near where we landed for the
carry, and a crowd of small boys came swarming down the bank to gaze
upon us, possibly imagining, at first, that our outfit was a part of
the show. They accompanied us, at a respectful distance, as we pulled
the canoe up a grassy incline and down through the vine-clad arches of
a picturesque old ruin of a mill. Below the dam, we rowed over to the
town, about where the famous pioneer ferry used to be. It was in the
spring of 1826 that John Boles opened a trail from Peoria to Galena,
by the way of the present locality of Dixon, thus shortening a trail
which had been started by one Kellogg the year before, but crossed the
Rock a few miles above. The site of Dixon at once sprang into wide
popularity as a crossing-place, Indians being employed to do the
ferrying. Their manner was simple. Lashing two canoes abreast, the
wheels of one side of a wagon were placed in one canoe and the
opposite wheels in the other. The horses were made to swim behind. In
1827 a Peoria man named Begordis erected a small shanty here and had
half finished a ferry-boat when the Indians, not favoring competition,
burned the craft on its stocks and advised Begordis to return to
Peoria; being a wise man, he returned. The next year, Joe Ogie, a
Frenchman, one of a race that the red men loved, and having a squaw
for his wife, was permitted to build a scow, and thenceforth Indians
were no longer needed there as common carriers. By the time of the
Black Hawk war, Dixon, from whom the subsequent settlement was named,
ran the ferry, and the crossing station had henceforth a name in
history. A trail in those early days was quite as important as a
railroad is to-day; settlements sprang up along the improved
"Kellogg's trail," and Dixon was the centre of interest in all
northern Illinois. Indeed, it being for years the only point where the
river could be crossed by ferry, Dixon was as important a landmark to
the settlers of the southern half of Wisconsin who desired to go to
Chicago, as any within their own territory.[1]
The Dixon of to-day shelters four thousand inhabitants and has two or
three busy mills; although it is noticeable that along the water-power
there are some half-dozen mill properties that have been burned, torn
down, or deserted, which does not look well for the manufacturing
prospects of the place. The land along the river banks is a flat
prairie some half-mile in width, with rolling country beyond,
sprinkled with oak groves. The banks are of black, sandy loam, from
twelve to twenty feet high, based with sandy beaches. The shores are
now and then cut with deep ravines, at the mouths of which are fine,
gravelly beaches, sometimes forming considerable spits. These indicate
that the dry, barren gullies, the gutters of the hillocks, while
innocent enough in a drought, sometimes rise to the dignity of
torrents and suddenly pour great volumes of drainage into the rapidly
filling river,--so often described in the journals of early travelers
through this region, as "the dark and raging Rock." This sort of
scenery, varied by occasional limestone palisades,--the interesting
and picturesque feature of the Rock, from which it derived its name at
the hands of the aborigines,--extends down to beyond Sterling.
This city, reached at 3.50 P. M., is a busy place of ten thousand
inhabitants, engaged in miscellaneous manufactures. Our portage was
over the south and dry end of the dam. We were helped by three or four
bright, intelligent boys, who were themselves carrying over a punt,
preparatory to a fishing expedition below. Amid the hundreds of boys
whom we met at our various portages, these well-bred Sterling lads
were the only ones who even offered their assistance. Very likely,
however, the reason may be traced to the fact that this was Saturday,
and a school holiday. The boys at the week-day carries were the
riff-raff, who are allowed to loaf upon the river-banks when they
should be at their school-room desks.
While mechanically pulling a "fisherman's stroke" down stream I was
dreamily reflecting upon the necessity of enforced popular education,
when W----, vigilant at the steersman's post, mischievously broke in
upon the brown study with, "Como's next station! Twenty minutes for
supper!"
And sure enough, it was a quarter past six, and there was Como nestled
upon the edge of the high prairie-bank. I went up into the hamlet to
purchase a quart of milk for supper, and found it a little dead-alive
community of perhaps one hundred and twenty-five people. There is the
brick shell of a fire-gutted factory, with several abandoned stores, a
dozen houses from which the paint had long since scaled, a rather
smart-looking schoolhouse, and two brick dwellings of ancient
pattern,--the homes of well-to-do farmers; while here and there were
grass-grown depressions, which I was told were once the cellars of
houses that had been moved away. On the return to the beach a bevy of
open-mouthed women and children accompanied me, plying questions with
a simplicity so rare that there was no thought of impertinence. W----
was talking with the old gray-haired ferryman, who had been
transporting a team across as we had landed beside his staging. The
old man had stayed behind, avowedly to mend his boat, with a stone for
a hammer, but it was quite apparent that curiosity kept him, rather
than the needs of his scow. He confided to us that Como--which was
indeed prettily situated upon a bend of the river--had once been a
prosperous town. But the railroad went to some rival place, and--the
familiar story--the dam at Como rotted, and the village fell into its
present dilapidated state. It is the fate of many a small but
ambitious town upon a river. Settled originally because of the river
highway, the railroads--that have nearly killed the business of water
transportation--did not care to go there because it was too far out of
the short-cut path selected by the engineers between two more
prominent points. Thus the community is "side-tracked,"--to use a bit
of railway slang; and a side-tracked town becomes in the new
civilization--which cares nothing for the rivers, but clusters along
the iron ways--a town "as dead as a door-nail."
We had luncheon on a high bank just out of sight of Como. By the time
we had reached a point three or four miles below the village it was
growing dark, and time to hunt for shelter. While I walked, or rather
ran, along the north bank looking for a farm-house, W---- guided the
canoe down a particularly rapid current. It was really too dark to
prosecute the search with convenience. I was several times misled by
clumps of trees, and fruitlessly climbed over board or crawled under
barbed-wire fences, and often stumbled along the dusty highway which
at times skirted the bank. It was over a mile before an undoubted
windmill appeared, dimly silhouetted against the blackening sky above
a dense growth of river-timber a quarter of a mile down the stream. A
whistle, and W---- shot the craft into the mouth of a black ravine,
and clambered up the bank, at the serious risk of torn clothing from
the thicket of blackberry-vines and locust saplings which covered it.
Together we emerged upon the highway, determined to seek the windmill
on foot; for it would have been impossible to sight the place from the
river, which was now, from the overhanging trees on both shores and
islands, as dark as a cavern. Just as we stepped upon the narrow
road--which we were only able to distinguish because the dust was
lighter in color than the vegetation--a farm-team came rumbling along
over a neighboring culvert, and rolled into view from behind a fringe
of bushes. The horses jumped and snorted as they suddenly sighted our
dark forms, and began to plunge. The women gave a mild shriek, and
awakened a small child which one of them carried in her arms. I
essayed to snatch the bits of the frightened horses to prevent them
from running away, for the women had dropped the lines, while W----
called out asking if there was a good farm-house where the windmill
was. The team quieted down under a few soothing strokes; but the women
persisted in screaming and uttering incoherent imprecations in German,
while the child fairly roared. So I returned the lines to the woman in
charge, and we bade them "Guten Nacht." As they whipped up their
animals and hurried away, with fearful backward glances, it suddenly
occurred to us that we had been taken for footpads.
We were so much amused at our adventure, as we walked along, almost
groping our way, that we failed to notice a farm-gate on the river
side of the road, until a chorus of dogs, just over the fence,
arrested our attention. A half-dozen human voices were at once heard
calling back the animals. A light shone in thin streaks through a
black fringe of lilac-bushes, and in front of these was the gate.
Opening the creaky structure, we advanced cautiously up what we felt
to be a gravel walk, under an arch of evergreens and lilacs, with the
paddle ready as a club, in case of another dog outbreak. But there was
no need of it, and we soon emerged into a flood of light, which
proceeded from a shadeless lamp within an open window.
It was a spacious white farm-house. Upon the "stoop" of an L were
standing, in attitudes of expectancy, a stout, well-fed, though rather
sinister-expressioned elderly man, with a long gray beard, and his
raw-boned, overworked wife, with two fair but dissatisfied-looking
daughters, and several sons, ranging from twelve to twenty years. A
few moments of explanation dispelled the suspicious look with which
we had been greeted, and it was soon agreed that we should, for a
consideration, be entertained for the night and over Sunday; although
the good woman protested that her house was "topsy-turvy, all torn up"
with house-cleaning,--which excuse, by the way, had become quite
familiar by this time, having been current at every house we had thus
far entered upon our journey.
Bringing our canoe down to the farmer's bank and hauling it up into
the bushes, we returned through the orchard to the house, laden with
baggage. Our host proved to be a famous story-teller. His tales, often
Munchausenese, were inclined to be ghastly, and he had an o'erweening
fondness for inconsequential detail, like some authors of serial
tales, who write against space and tax the patience of their readers
to its utmost endurance. But while one may skip the dreary pages of
the novelist, the circumstantial story-teller must be borne with
patiently, though the hours lag with leaden heels. In earlier days the
old man had been something of a traveler, having journeyed to Illinois
by steamboat on the upper lakes, from "ol' York State;" another time
he went down the Mississippi River to Natchez, working his way as a
deck hand; but the crowning event of his career was his having, as a
driver, accompanied a cattle-train to New York city. A few years ago
he tumbled down a well and was hauled up something of a cripple; so
that his occupation chiefly consists in sitting around the house in an
easy-chair, or entertaining the crowd at the cross-roads store with
sturdy tales of his adventures by land and sea, spiced with vigorous
opinions on questions of politics and theology. The garrulity of age,
a powerful imagination, and a boasting disposition are his chief stock
in trade.
Propped up in his great chair, with one leg resting upon a lounge and
the other aiding his iron-ferruled cane in pounding the floor by way
of punctuating his remarks, "that ancient mariner"
"Held us with his glittering eye;
We could not choose but hear."
His tales were chiefly of shooting and stabbing scrapes, drownings and
hangings that he claimed to have seen, dwelling upon each incident
with a blood-curdling particularity worthy of the reporter of a
sensational metropolitan journal. The ancient man must have fairly
walked in blood through the greater part of his days; while from the
number of corpses that had been fished out of the river, at the head
of a certain island at the foot of his orchard, and "laid out" in his
best bedroom by the coroner, we began to feel as though we had engaged
quarters at a morgue. It was painfully evident that these recitals
were "chestnuts" in the house of our entertainer. The poor old lady
had a tired-out, unhappy appearance, the dissatisfied-looking
daughters yawned, and the sons talked, _sotto voce_, on farm matters
and neighborhood gossip.
Finally, we tore away, much to the relief of every one but the host,
and were ushered with much ceremony into the ghostly bed-chamber, the
scene of so many coroner's inquests. I must confess to uncanny dreams
that night,--confused visions of Rock River giving up innumerable
corpses, which I was compelled to assist in "laying out" upon the very
bed I occupied.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] See Mrs. Kinzie's "Wau-Bun" for a description of the difficulties
of travel in "the early day," via Dixon's Ferry.