Chester Arlington set out from his Virginia home for the Southwest,
carrying in his brain many anticipations, memories, and dreams, having
slight connection with his nominal duties as Burr's business agent. He
hoped to swell his own fortune by speculation in Wachita land;
certainly he was eager to be among the first to march into Mexico when
the signal for invasion should be given, openly or secretly. Moreover,
sheer restlessness and love of adventure prompted him to ride over the
hills and far away.
As he proceeded westward along the Old Wilderness Road, through
Cumberland Gap, into the heart of Kentucky, he had plenty of time for
meditation. The varied prospects continually appealing to his eye
mixed their images with pictures in his memory, especially with
recollections of his journey down the Ohio. The interesting route over
which he was now passing had been marked out by Boone and the early
pioneers. Of the eighty thousand or more inhabitants living in
Kentucky at this time, nearly all had come West on horseback or on
foot. The famed region--the hunting ground of the Indians before the
"Long Knives" invaded it--retained the chief features of a primeval
forest. The settlers' houses were cabins in the clearing.
The Virginian's meditations were broken in upon by various diverting
sights and sounds. His attention was attracted by some picturesque
hunter, dressed in buckskin pantaloons, fringed jacket, broad yellow
belt, and wolfskin cap, and carrying a long rifle; or, perchance, he
exchanged good-humored remarks with a wayfaring rustic who proposed to
swap horses. He wended his way through the Blue Grass region, through
Lexington and Frankfort, and southward into Tennessee. Arlington found
keen enjoyment in what he saw and heard, though never quite losing
from consciousness a haunting memory of the Lady of the Violets. He
read with curiosity the tavern signs, wondering what relation such
names as "The General Washington," "The Sign of the Wagon," "The Seven
Stars," "The Golden Bull," "The Red Lion" bore to the character of the
entertainment advertised by the several symbols, for Chester never
failed to revive at meal-times a hearty regard for victuals and drink.
The table fare in Kentucky and Tennessee was much the same wherever
the traveller stopped--consisting of bacon, eggs, and of corn bread
in the form of dodgers, or of big loaves weighing eight or ten pounds,
cooked in a portable iron Dutch oven. Coffee the landlord always
served, tea never, and no meal was complete without toddy. Peaches
abounded; and a drink called metheglin, made of their juice mixed with
whiskey and sweetened water, the thirsty traveller thought a rival to
mint julep.
One night Arlington put up at a locally celebrated tavern on the
border of Tennessee. He found the genial host--an honest gossip
called Chin--enjoying a hospitable carouse with half a dozen boon
companions soaked full of flip and peach brandy. The jolly topers
welcomed the newcomer to share their cups. They imparted much old
news, and volunteered many encomiums on the landlord and his inn. They
took special pride in Chin's tavern, owing to the undoubted historical
fact that the guest-room had been occupied by Louis Philippe one night
in the year 1802. On requesting to be shown to bed, the Virginian was
conducted by the landlord, candle in hand, to a bare loft, on the
floor of which lay a straw tick covered by a blue blanket.
"There's a bed a young gentleman ought to be proud to sleep on,"
affirmed the host, waving the candle over the couch. "If it's good
enough for the son of the Duke of Orleans, it's good enough for me or
you, eh? Wouldn't you like an applejack or a stiff metheglin to make
you sleep sound? The boys downstairs respect you, sir, for the way you
liquored. A young man travellin' can't be too sociable or treat too
often. Well, good-night; you're lucky to strike that bed; you don't
lay every night under a kiver and onto a tick slep between by the son
of the Duke of Orleans."
Chester found the bed conducive to dreams, in which he was happy
beyond the happiness of duke or king, dreams of Blennerhassett's
island in May, and of wandering with a wingless Yankee angel in that
earthly Paradise. Next morning, in payment for lodging and breakfast,
he offered a silver dollar.
"That's too much," said Chin. "Here, Joel, chop this coin. I must give
you the change in sharp-shanks. Will you have it in quarters or
eighths?"
"In whatever form you please."
"Then make it quarters, Joel," directed the landlord, tossing the
dollar to a negro, who neatly cut the piece into four equal segments,
one of which was handed back to the departing guest.
Arlington proceeded southward toward Natchez, following the road over
which Burr had travelled toilsomely nearly two years before. Though
warned not to undertake the journey alone, our hero, like James Fitz
James, chose to trace a dangerous path only because it was "dangerous
known." Road, properly so called, none had yet been opened through the
wilderness stretching from Tennessee to lower Louisiana, and spreading
eastward from the Mississippi. The route led the traveller along an
old trail, over sandy spaces shadowed by melancholy pines, beside
stagnant lagoons, across sluggish streams, and into cypress swamps,
the lurking-place of reptiles, the dreary haunt of bats and vultures.
The road, at best, was an indifferent bridle path, and at worst, a
blind labyrinth of seldom trodden ways in the woods. Arlington carried
in his saddle-bags a supply of bread and cheese, and he kept ready
primed, in holster at his pommel, a brace of big pistols.
On the evening of the second day after entering the piny woods of
Mississippi, he came upon a party of Creeks and Cherokees. They were
friendly; their chief offered the hospitality of the camp, venison to
eat and a buffalo hide to sleep on. These mild savages spoke a few
English words, and they had partially adopted the customs of white
people. The men wore an upper garment, like a shirt, and, about their
loins a girdle of blue cloth a yard and a half long. Their legs were
bare, their feet shod with moccasins of stag-skin. They were shorn of
all hair except a grotesque tuft on top of the head. To enhance their
masculine beauty, they sported nose-rings and painted their faces red,
blue or black. The dress of the squaws consisted of a shirt, a short
petticoat, and ornamental gaiters. Not one of them suffered a ring in
her nose or paint on her cheeks, and all seemed proud of their hair. A
dusky beauty, the chief's daughter, insisted on picketing and feeding
Arlington's horse. On the next morning, before quitting the camp, the
young man gallantly gave her a silk scarf, a present which all the
other Indians, from the chief down, envied her.
No adventure of an unpleasant kind befell Chester Arlington until
after he had crossed Black River, well on the way to Natchez. One day,
in the dusk of evening, he heard a voice from a distance shout after
him, "Ho, there!" He looked in the direction from which the shout had
been sent, and returned an answering "Hello!" but could see no person,
nor could he elicit another cry from the solitude. This unaccountable
voice, sounding in the wilderness, had a disagreeable effect on
Arlington's nerves, though he was not in the least alarmed by it. His
horse, however, tired as the brute was, pricked up its ears, gave a
suspicious snort, and moved with quicker pace. Perhaps half an hour
passed; the twilight deepened, and the weary traveller looked right
and left for a suitable camping spot for the coming night. He checked
the horse, rose in his stirrups, turning his head to prospect a green
nook near the bridle path, when, crack! whiz! and a bullet grazed his
left ear. This was more serious than a lone cry in the wilderness.
Horse and rider instantly sought security in flight. The spurs were
hardly needed to urge the black stallion forward. A brisk gallop along
such ready avenues as Jetty could follow in the darkening woods,
rapidly put a safe distance between the traveller and the random
highwayman who had shot at him. At any rate, Arlington decided to
dismount and take the chances. He tethered the animal, ate a dodger,
and slept on his arms.
On the following morning new cause for anxiety arose. The bridle path
was not to be found. In galloping away to avoid bullets, Chester had
swerved much to the westward, and far from the obscure and crooked
"trace." For a whole day he wandered circuitously, in vain search for
the beaten course. The more stubbornly he resolved to keep "calm,
cool, and collected," the worse confused were his calculations. He
experienced sensations unlike any he had ever before felt. It vexed
him to confess to himself that his usually clear brain was a muddle.
He seemed not only to have missed the way, but had also lost the
faculty of self-direction.
The night was again coming on. Now, Arlington regretted his obstinacy
in refusing the service of a guide. Danger for danger's sake was
playing ironically with him. He reflected that the wisest thing for
him to do was to save his strength, recover his wandering wits, and
start afresh the next morning. Luckily his saddle-bags were stored
with a good stock of rations. He tied his jaded horse to a
cypress-tree, and sat down on the ground to endure as patiently as he
could the long dark hours. "A prince's bed in Chin's loft," thought
he, "is luxury compared with this. All comfort is relative. I will
sleep if I can. I shall need myself to-morrow."
The croaking of frogs in the swamp and the shrill trumpeting of the
mosquito army attacking his face and hands were not agreeable
lullabies. As the darkness deepened, a medley of doleful noises
pervaded the horrible wilderness. An unearthly gabble of strange
water-fowl broke out suddenly, was kept up for a few seconds only, and
then ceased. Only once in the night did Arlington hear that demoniac
gabble; but he lay awake for hours expecting and dreading to hear it
again. The owls were not so sparing of their vocal performances,
scores of them joining in concert to serenade the lost man. Sometimes
their prolonged notes sounded like the wail of a deserted babe,
sometimes like mocking laughter, and again like a deep guttural snore.
Nothing worse than mosquitos, dismal sounds, and the dank vapor of the
swamp afflicted the weary man, who, falling asleep at midnight, slept
so soundly that on waking late next morning he reproached himself for
not having dreamed as usual of Evaleen Hale.
"How do you feel this morning, Jetty?" he said, patting his black
horse. "Are you well rested? I will get you the best breakfast to be
had in this God-forsaken region, and we must trot on or stay here and
perish. Never say die, Jetty."
Real difficulties invigorate the brain of a brave man. Arlington awoke
with a definite plan of procedure in his mind. After feeding Jetty and
breakfasting with keen gusto, he renewed his search for the lost path,
keeping the points of the compass ever in view. Natchez lay to the
south and also to the west. By going due south one must certainly
strike the road at some point.
"Are you ready to start, my lad?" said the man to the horse. The horse
whinnied an equine response, and was soon bearing his master southward
through the underbrush. Many an hour was wasted; the sun climbed to
the meridian, and no indication of the anxiously looked-for trail was
seen. At length, just as Arlington's pioneering eye lit upon the
shining surface of a lazy brook, a dozen yards away, Jetty suddenly
halted, put nose to the ground and began to paw. The animal had found
a path, scarcely discernible, yet a practicable road marked by
hoof-tracks. The course of it was along the edge of the small stream
flowing westerly. "Manifestly the rational thing to do now is to
follow the new-found trail, which, in all probability, is the right
road to Natchez, or if not, it may lead to the Mississippi, where a
boat can be hailed."
Progress was slow and painful. The oppressive afternoon was half spent
when a breeze started up, the precursor of a thunder-gust. The breeze,
strengthening to a brisk gale, made Arlington hold fast to his hat,
and caused the long streamers of Spanish moss to wave like gray
banners from the limbs of the cypress-trees. The air grew murky,
clouds were flying in dark blotches. A hurricane was sweeping across
the country; the loud rush of it came roaring up the stream; it lashed
and twisted and tore trees; poured down torrents; thundered around and
above Arlington and his terrified horse, without doing either man or
beast the slightest hurt, save deluging them with rain, and pounding
them as with mighty hammers of wind. The storm swept past, the rain
ceased, the wind died away, and the traveller thanked his stars he had
escaped death. On, on, farther and farther toiled the travellers, now
both afoot, Arlington leading his panting beast. The water-way on
their south, near the bank of which the road lay, widened abruptly,
and became a broad, natural canal, with crumbling shores. Arlington
paused to speculate on the strange aspect of things. Long had he
journeyed among bushes and trees, over logs and across streams and
oozy marshes; now he deemed he was nearing the Mississippi. "I am De
Soto the Second; an explorer of new regions, a discoverer of strange
watercourses. This Acheron at my left must flow into some larger body
of water, if it flows at all. Courage, Jetty! We are on the way to the
Father of Waters."
Climbing once more into the saddle, Arlington resumed his ride,
patting his horse on the neck, and encouraging him with words.
"Patience, good boy; keep up a day or two more. Surely this widening
stream on our left creeps to the big river. See! A boat! A vessel made
by man's hands lies on the shore of this Dead Sea!"
Joyfully Chester sprang to the ground, and leaving the animal to
browse, ran down to the edge of the bluff to learn if any living
creature were aboard. He discovered three or four large boats,
freighted with barrels and boxes. He called, but no answer came back.
Turning to look after his horse, he noticed a foot-path leading into a
thicket, and having pushed his way amid the wet bushes, he came into a
broader path, which brought him to a supposititious tavern, the
headquarters of Palafox's gang.
"A queer place for a public house," thought Arlington, reading the
sign over the door. "Table set in the wilderness; I am out of danger
of starvation, anyhow. Blessed be the name of Cacosotte."
Thus communing with himself, the young man pounded vigorously on the
puncheon door. No one came to open to him. Loudly he called in the
hearty manner of the backwoodsman:
"Hello the house!"
Nobody answered the call, though Arlington could have sworn he heard
suppressed voices within. It flashed upon him that the place might be
a trap for travellers, and the sign-board a decoy. His two heavy
pistols, each more than a foot long, hung strapped to his belt. The
priming was fresh; the flints were accurately set.
"Hello, there, within!"
Still no answer, yet again the sound of voices--women's voices. The
stranger left the front portal to investigate the rear end of the long
cabin. Loopholes in the log walls permitted air and light to enter the
rooms. Through one of these openings, an aperture which might very
likely conceal the muzzle of an aimed rifle, Arlington heard--not the
report of a gun, but what surprised him more--his own name shrieked
by Evaleen Hale. The hurried, excited appeal of the captives made
clear the prompt and only course for the man to take. He hastened to
the front door again, and now saw a reason why the strong bolts on the
outside had been fastened. These he drew, and almost heaving the door
off its hinges, rushed into the den. Mex stood on guard in the first
partition door, a butcher knife in her hand. Slight parley did the
athletic, impetuous Virginian ranger hold with the dragon who
interposed between him and his lady-love. "Drop the knife! Throw up
your hands!" he demanded, with an emphasis of desperation, which left
no doubt of his intentions. Mex knew the meaning of pistols; she was
cowed; the knife fell and her hands went up. Secretly she was glad to
be foiled. She wished to be rid of the woman Palafox admired, and she
could think of but two modes of disposing of her--killing her or
letting her escape. Slowly walking backward, menaced by a cocked
pistol, Mex retreated to the door of the room in which the ladies were
locked up. The bolts were unfastened by her, the door swung inward,
and the prisoners sprang to freedom. Now again Mex showed fight. She
flashed Pepillo's poignard from a hidden sheath and made at Arlington,
who struck the weapon down, shoved the savage woman back into the
room, and bolted the door.