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[Illustration:
LILLIAN MORRIS
AND OTHER STORIES]
+--------------------------------------+
| |
| THE WRITINGS OF |
| HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. |
| |
| YANKO THE MUSICIAN, and Other |
| Stories. |
| |
| LILLIAN MORRIS, and Other Stories. |
| |
| WITHOUT DOGMA, a Novel of Modern |
| Poland. |
| |
| |
| Historical Romances. |
| |
| WITH FIRE AND SWORD. |
| |
| THE DELUGE. |
| |
| PAN MICHAEL. |
| |
+--------------------------------------+
LILLIAN MORRIS AND OTHER STORIES
by
HENRYK·SIENKIEWICZ
Avthor···of···“With Fire·and·Sword”··etc
Translated··by Jeremiah·Cvrtin
With Illvstrations·by·Edmvnd·H·Garrett
[Illustration: LOGO]
Boston
Little·Brown·and·Company
M·D·CCC·XCIV
Copyright, 1894,
By Little, Brown, and Company.
University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.
[Illustration: Contents·]
PAGE
LILLIAN MORRIS 1
SACHEM 155
YAMYOL 177
THE BULL-FIGHT 199
[Illustration: LILLIAN MORRIS OF BOSTON]
LILLIAN MORRIS.
DURING my stay in California I went with my worthy and gallant friend,
Captain R., to visit Y., a compatriot of ours who was living in the
secluded mountains of Santa Lucia. Not finding him at home, we passed
five days in a lonely ravine, in company with an old Indian servant,
who during his master’s absence took care of the Angora goats and the
bees.
Conforming to the ways of the country, I spent the hot summer days
mainly in sleep, but when night came I sat down near a fire of dry
“chamisal,” and listened to stories from the captain, concerning his
wonderful adventures, and events which could happen only in the wilds
of America.
Those hours passed for me very bewitchingly. The nights were real
Californian: calm, warm, starry; the fire burned cheerily, and in its
gleam I saw the gigantic, but shapely and noble form of the old pioneer
warrior. Raising his eyes to the stars, he sought to recall past
events, cherished names, and dear faces, the very remembrance of which
brought a mild sadness to his features. Of these narratives I give one
just as I heard it, thinking that the reader will listen to it with as
much interest as I did.
[Illustration: CHAPTER I]
I CAME to America in September, 1849, said the captain, and found
myself in New Orleans, which was half French at that time. From New
Orleans I went up the Mississippi to a great sugar plantation, where
I found work and good wages. But since I was young in those days, and
full of daring, sitting in one spot and writing annoyed me; so I left
that place soon and began life in the forest. My comrades and I passed
some time among the lakes of Louisiana, in the midst of crocodiles,
snakes, and mosquitoes. We supported ourselves with hunting and
fishing, and from time to time floated down great numbers of logs to
New Orleans, where purchasers paid for them not badly in money.
Our expeditions reached distant places. We went as far as “Bloody
Arkansas,” which, sparsely inhabited even at this day, was well-nigh
a pure wilderness then. Such a life, full of labors and dangers,
bloody encounters with pirates on the Mississippi, and with Indians,
who at that time were numerous in Louisiana, Arkansas, and Tennessee,
increased my health and strength, which by nature were uncommon, and
gave me also such knowledge of the plains, that I could read in that
great book not worse than any red warrior.
After the discovery of gold in California, large parties of emigrants
left Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and other eastern cities almost
daily, and one of these, thanks to my reputation, chose me for leader,
or as we say, captain.
I accepted the office willingly, since wonders were told of California
in those days, and I had cherished thoughts of going to the Far West,
though without concealing from myself the perils of the journey.
At present the distance between New York and San Francisco is passed by
rail in a week, and the real desert begins only west of Omaha; in those
days it was something quite different. Cities and towns, which between
New York and Chicago are as numerous as poppy-seeds now, did not exist
then; and Chicago itself, which later on grew up like a mushroom after
rain, was merely a poor obscure fishing-village not found on maps. It
was necessary to travel with wagons, men, and mules through a country
quite wild, and inhabited by terrible tribes of Indians: Crows,
Blackfeet, Pawnees, Sioux, and Arickarees, which it was well-nigh
impossible to avoid in large numbers, since those tribes, movable as
sand, had no fixed dwellings, but, being hunters, circled over great
spaces of prairie, while following buffaloes and antelopes.
Not few were the toils, then, that threatened us; but he who goes
to the Far West must be ready to suffer hardship, and expose his
life frequently. I feared most of all the responsibility which I had
accepted. This matter had been settled, however, and there was nothing
to do but make preparations for the road. These lasted more than two
months, since we had to bring wagons, even from Pittsburgh, to buy
mules, horses, arms, and collect large supplies of provisions. Toward
the end of winter, however, all things were ready.
I wished to start in such season as to pass the great prairies lying
between the Mississippi and the Rocky Mountains in spring, for I knew
that in summer because of heat in those open places, multitudes of men
died of various diseases. I decided for this reason to lead the train,
not over the southern route by St. Louis, but through Iowa, Nebraska,
and Northern Colorado. That road was more dangerous with reference
to Indians, but beyond doubt it was the healthier. The plan roused
opposition at first among people of the train. I declared that if they
would not obey they might choose another captain. They yielded after a
brief consultation, and we moved at the first breath of spring.
Days now set in which for me were toilsome enough, especially till
such time as men had grown accustomed to me and the conditions of the
journey. It is true that my person roused confidence, for my daring
trips to Arkansas had won a certain fame among the restless population
of the border, and the name of “Big Ralph,” by which I was known on
the prairies, had struck the ears of most of my people more than once.
In general, however, the captain, or leader, was, from the nature
of things, in a very critical position frequently with regard to
emigrants. It was my duty to choose the camping-ground every evening,
watch over the advance in the daytime, have an eye on the whole
caravan, which extended at times a mile over the prairie, appoint
sentries at the halting-places, and give men permission to rest in the
wagons when their turn came.
Americans have in them, it is true, the spirit of organization
developed to a high degree; but in toils on the road men’s energies
weaken, and unwillingness seizes the most enduring. At such times
no one wishes to reconnoitre on horseback all day and stand sentry
at night, but each man would like to evade the turn which is coming
to him, and lie whole days in a wagon. Besides, in intercourse with
Yankees, a captain must know how to reconcile discipline with a certain
social familiarity,—a thing far from easy. In time of march, and in the
hours of night-watching, I was perfect master of the will of each of
my companions; but during rest in the day at farms and settlements, to
which we came at first on the road, my rôle of commander ended. Each
man was master of himself then, and more than once I was forced to
overcome the opposition of insolent adventurers; but when in presence
of numerous spectators it turned out a number of times that my Mazovian
fist was the stronger, my significance rose, and later on I never had
personal encounters. Besides, I knew American character thoroughly.
I knew how to help myself, and, in addition to all, my endurance and
willingness were increased by a certain pair of blue eyes, which looked
out at me with special interest from beneath the canvas roof of a
wagon. Those eyes looked from under a forehead shaded by rich golden
hair, and they belonged to a maiden named Lillian Morris. She was
delicate, slender, with finely cut features, and a face thoughtful,
though almost childlike. That seriousness in such a young girl struck
me at once when beginning the journey, but duties connected with the
office of captain soon turned my mind and attention elsewhere.
During the first weeks I exchanged with Miss Morris barely a couple
of words beyond the usual daily “good morning.” Taking compassion,
however, on her youth and loneliness,—she had no relatives in that
caravan,—I showed the poor girl some trifling services. I had not the
least need of guarding her with my authority of leader nor with my fist
from the forwardness of young men in the train, for among Americans
even the youngest woman is sure, if not of the over-prompt politeness
for which the French are distinguished, at least of perfect security.
In view, however, of Lillian’s delicate health, I put her in the most
commodious wagon, in charge of a driver of great experience, named
Smith. I spread for her a couch on which she could sleep with comfort;
finally, I lent her a warm buffalo-skin, of which I had a number in
reserve. Though these services were not important, Lillian seemed to
feel a lively gratitude, and omitted no opportunity to show it. She was
evidently a very mild and retiring person. Two women, Aunt Grosvenor
and Aunt Atkins, soon loved her beyond expression for the sweetness of
her character. “Little Bird,” a title which they gave her, became the
name by which she was known in the caravan. Still, there was not the
slightest approach between Little Bird and me, till I noticed that the
blue and almost angelic eyes of that maiden were turned toward me, with
a peculiar sympathy and determined interest.
That might have been interpreted in this way: Among all the people of
the train I alone had some social refinement; Lillian, in whom also a
careful training was evident, saw in me, therefore, a man nearer to
her than the rest of the company. But I understood the affair somewhat
differently. The interest which she showed pleased my vanity; my vanity
made me pay her more attention, and look oftener into her eyes. It was
not long till I was striving in vain to discover why, up to that time,
I had paid so little attention to a person so exquisite,—a person who
might inspire tender feelings in any man who had a heart.
Thenceforth I was fond of coursing around her wagon on my horse. During
the heat of the day, which in spite of the early spring annoyed us
greatly at noon, the mules dragged forward lazily, and the caravan
stretched along the prairie, so that a man standing at the first wagon
could barely see the last one. Often did I fly at such times from
end to end, wearying my horse without need, just to see that bright
head in passing, and those eyes, which hardly ever left my mind. At
first my imagination was more taken than my heart; I received pleasant
solace from the thought that among those strange people I was not
entirely a stranger, since a sympathetic little soul was occupied
with me somewhat. Perhaps this came not from vanity, but from the
yearning which on earth a man feels to discover his own self in a
heart near to him, to fix his affections and thoughts on one living
beloved existence, instead of wasting them on such indefinite, general
objects as plains and forests, and losing himself in remotenesses and
infinities.
I felt less lonely then, and the whole journey took on attractions
unknown to me hitherto. Formerly, when the caravan stretched out on the
prairie, as I have described, so that the last wagons vanished from
the eye, I saw in that only a lack of attention, and disorder, from
which I grew very angry. Now, when I halted on some eminence, the sight
of those wagons white and striped, shone on by the sun and plunging
in the sea of grass, like ships on the ocean, the sight of men, on
horseback and armed, scattered in picturesque disorder at the sides of
the wagons, filled my soul with delight and happiness. And I know not
whence such comparisons came to me, but that seemed some kind of Old
Testament procession, which I, like a patriarch, was leading to the
Promised Land. The bells on the harness of the mules and the drawling,
“Get up!” of the drivers accompanied like music thoughts which came
from my heart and my nature.
But I did not pass from that dialogue of eyes with Lillian to another,
for the presence of the women travelling with her prevented me. Still,
from the time when I saw that there was something between us for which
I could not find a name yet, though I felt that the something was
there, a certain strange timidity seized me. I redoubled, however, my
care for the women, and frequently I looked into the wagon, inquiring
about the health of Aunt Atkins and Aunt Grosvenor, so as to justify in
that way and equalize the attentions with which I surrounded Lillian;
but she understood my methods perfectly, and this understanding became
as it were our own secret, concealed from the rest of the people.
Soon, glances and a passing exchange of words and tender endeavors
were not enough for me. That young maiden with bright hair and sweet
look drew me to her with an irresistible power. I began to think of
her whole days; and at night, when wearied from visiting the sentries,
and hoarse from crying “All is well!” I came at last to the wagon,
and wrapping myself in a buffalo-skin, closed my eyes to rest, it
seemed to me that the gnats and mosquitoes buzzing around were singing
unceasingly in my ears, “Lillian! Lillian! Lillian!” Her form stood
before me in my dreams; at waking, my first thought flew to her like a
swallow; and still, wonderful thing! I had not noticed that the dear
attraction which everything assumed for me, that painting in the soul
of objects in golden colors, and those thoughts sailing after her
wagon, were not a friendship nor an inclination for an orphan, but
a mightier feeling by far, a feeling from which no man on earth can
defend himself when the turn has come to him.
It may be that I should have noticed this sooner, had it not been that
the sweetness of Lillian’s nature won every one to her; I thought,
therefore, that I was no more under the charm of that maiden than were
others. All loved her as their own child, and I had proof of this
before my eyes daily. Her companions were simple women, sufficiently
inclined to wordy quarrels, and still, more than once had I seen Aunt
Atkins, the greatest Herod on earth, combing Lillian’s hair in the
morning, kissing her with the affection of a mother; sometimes I saw
Aunt Grosvenor warming in her own palms the maiden’s hands, which had
chilled in the night. The men surrounded her likewise with care and
attentions. There was a certain Henry Simpson in the train, a young
adventurer from Kansas, a fearless hunter and an honest fellow at
heart, but so self-sufficient, so insolent and rough, that during the
first month I had to beat the man twice, to convince him that there was
some one in the train with a stronger hand than his, and of superior
significance. You should have seen that same Henry Simpson speaking
to Lillian. He who would not have thought anything of the President of
the United States himself, lost in her presence all his confidence and
boldness, and repeated every moment, “I beg your pardon, Miss Morris!”
He had quite the bearing of a chained mastiff, but clearly the mastiff
was ready to obey every motion of that small, half-childlike hand. At
the halting-places he tried always to be with Lillian, so as to render
her various little services. He lighted the fire, and selected for her
a place free from smoke, covering it first with moss and then with his
own horse-blankets; he chose for her the best pieces of game, doing all
this with a certain timid attention which I had not thought to find
in him, and which roused in me, nevertheless, a kind of ill-will very
similar to jealousy.
But I could only be angry, nothing more. Henry, if the turn to stand
guard did not come to him, might do what he liked with his time,
hence he could be near Lillian, while my turn of service never ended.
On the road the wagons dragged forward one after another, often very
far apart; but when we entered an open country for the midday rest
I placed the wagons, according to prairie custom, in a line side by
side, so that a man could hardly push between them. It is difficult
to understand how much trouble and toil I had before such an easily
defended line was formed. Mules are by nature wild and untractable;
either they balked, or would not go out of the beaten track, biting
each other meanwhile, neighing and kicking; wagons, twisted by sudden
movement, were turned over frequently, and the raising up of such real
houses of wood and canvas took no little time; the braying of mules,
the cursing of drivers, the tinkling of bells, the barking of dogs
which followed us, caused a hellish uproar. When I had brought all
into order in some fashion, I had to oversee the unharnessing of the
animals and urge on the men whose work it was to drive them to pasture
and then to water. Meanwhile men who during the advance had gone out on
the prairie to hunt, were returning from all sides with game; the fires
were occupied by people, and I found barely time to eat and draw breath.
I had almost double labor when we started after each rest, for
attaching the mules involved more noise and uproar than letting them
out. Besides, the drivers tried always to get ahead of one another,
so as to spare themselves trouble in turning out of line in bad
places. From this came quarrels and disputes, together with curses
and unpleasant delays on the road. I had to watch over all this, and
in time of marching ride in advance, immediately after the guides,
to examine the neighborhood and select in season defensible places,
abounding in water, and, in general, commodious for night camps.
Frequently I cursed my duties as captain, though on the other hand the
thought filled me with pride, that in all that boundless desert I was
the first before the desert itself, before people, before Lillian, and
that the fate of all those beings, wandering behind the wagons over
that prairie, was placed in my hands.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: CHAPTER II]
ON a certain time, after we had passed the Mississippi, we halted
for the night at Cedar River, the banks of which, grown over with
cottonwood, gave us assurance of fuel for the night. While returning
from the men on duty, who had gone into the thicket with axes, I saw,
from a distance, that our people, taking advantage of the beautiful
weather and the calm fair day, had wandered out on the prairie in
every direction. It was very early; we halted for the night usually
about five o’clock in the afternoon, so as to move in the morning at
daybreak. Soon I met Miss Morris. I dismounted immediately, and leading
my horse by the bridle, approached the young lady, happy that I could
be alone with her even for a while. I inquired then why she, so young
and unattended, had undertaken a journey which might wear out the
strongest man.
“Never should I have consented to receive you into our caravan,” said
I, “had I not thought during the first few days of our journey that you
were the daughter of Aunt Atkins; now it is too late to turn back. But
will you be strong enough, my dear child? You must be ready to find the
journey hereafter less easy than hitherto.”
“I know all this,” answered she, without raising her pensive blue eyes,
“but I must go on, and I am happy indeed that I cannot go back. My
father is in California, and from the letter which he sent me by way of
Cape Horn, I learn that for some months he has been ill of a fever in
Sacramento. Poor father! he was accustomed to comfort and my care,—and
it was only through love of me that he went to California. I do not
know whether I shall find him alive; but I feel that in going to him, I
am only fulfilling a duty that is dear to me.”
There was no answer to such words; moreover, all that I might object
to this undertaking would be too late. I inquired then of Lillian for
nearer details touching her father. These she gave with great pleasure,
and I learned that in Boston Mr. Morris had been judge of the Supreme
Court, or highest tribunal of the State; that he had lost his property,
and had gone to the newly discovered mines of California in the hope
of acquiring a new fortune, and bringing back to his daughter, whom
he loved more than life, her former social position. Meanwhile, he
caught a fever in the unwholesome Sacramento valley, and judging that
he should die he sent Lillian his last blessing. She sold all the
property that he had left with her, and resolved to hasten to him. At
first she intended to go by sea; but an acquaintance with Aunt Atkins
made by chance two days before the caravan started, changed her mind.
Aunt Atkins, who was from Tennessee, having had her ears filled with
tales which friends of mine from the banks of the Mississippi had told
her and others of my daring expeditions to the famed Arkansas, of my
experience in journeys over the prairies, and the care which I gave
to the weak (this I consider as a simple duty), described me in such
colors before Lillian that the girl, without hesitating longer, joined
the caravan going under my leadership. To those exaggerated narratives
of Aunt Atkins, who did not delay to add that I was of noble birth, it
is necessary to ascribe the fact that Miss Morris was occupied with my
person.
“You may be sure,” said I, when she had finished her story, “that no
one will do you any wrong here, and that care will not fail you; as to
your father, California is the healthiest country on earth, and no one
dies of fever there. In every case, while I am alive, you will not be
left alone; and meanwhile may God bless your sweet face!”
“Thank you, captain,” answered she, with emotion, and we went on; but
my heart beat with more violence. Gradually our conversation became
livelier, and no one could foresee that that sky above us would become
cloudy.
“But all here are kind to you, Miss Morris?” asked I again,
not supposing that just that question would be the cause of
misunderstanding.
“Oh yes, all,” said she, “and Aunt Atkins and Aunt Grosvenor, and Henry
Simpson too is very good.”
This mention of Simpson pained me suddenly, like the bite of a snake.
“Henry is a mule-driver,” answered I curtly, “and has to care for the
wagons.”
But Lillian, occupied with the course of her own thoughts, had not
noticed the change in my voice, and spoke on as if to herself,—
“He has an honest heart, and I shall be grateful to him all my life.”
“Miss Morris,” interrupted I, cut to the quick, “you may even give him
your hand. I wonder, however, that you choose me as a confidant of your
feelings.”
When I said that she looked at me with astonishment but made no reply,
and we went on together in disagreeable silence. I knew not what to
say, though my heart was full of bitterness and anger toward her and
myself. I felt simply conquered by jealousy of Simpson, but still I
could not fight against it. The position seemed to me so unendurable
that I said all at once briefly and dryly,—
“Good night, Miss Morris!”
“Good night,” answered she calmly, turning her head to hide two tears
that were dropping down her cheeks.
I mounted my horse and rode away again toward the point whence the
sound of axes came, and where, among others, Henry Simpson was cutting
a cottonwood. After a while I was seized by a certain measureless
regret, for it seemed to me that those two tears were falling on my
heart. I turned my horse, and next minute I was near Lillian a second
time.
“Why are you crying, Miss Morris?” asked I.
“Oh, sir,” said she, “I know that you are of a noble family, Aunt
Atkins told me that, and you have been so kind to me.”
She did everything not to cry; but she could not restrain herself,
and could not finish her answer, for tears choked her voice. The poor
thing! she had been touched to the bottom of her pensive soul by
my answer regarding Simpson, for there was evident in it a certain
aristocratic contempt; but I was not even dreaming of aristocracy,—I
was simply jealous; and now, seeing her so unhappy, I wanted to seize
my own collar and throttle myself. Grasping her hand, I said with
animation:—
“Lillian, Lillian, you did not understand me. I take God to witness
that no pride was speaking through me. Look at me: I have nothing in
the world but these two hands,—what is my descent to me? Something
else pained me, and I wanted to go away; but I could not support your
tears. And I swear to you also, that what I have said to you pains
me more than it does you. You are not an object of indifference to
me, Lillian. Oh, not at all! for if you were, what you think of Henry
would not concern me. He is an honest fellow, but that does not touch
the question. You see how much your tears cost me; then forgive me as
sincerely as I entreat your forgiveness.”
Speaking in this way I raised her hand and pressed it to my lips;
that high proof of respect, and the truthfulness which sounded in my
request, succeeded in quieting the maiden somewhat. She did not cease
at once to weep, but her tears were of another kind, for a smile was
visible through them, as a sun-ray through mist. Something too was
sticking in my throat, and I could not stifle my emotion. A certain
tender feeling mastered my heart. We walked on in silence, and round
about us the world was pleasant and sweet.
Meanwhile, the day was inclining toward evening; the weather was
beautiful, and in the air, already dusky, there was so much light that
the whole prairie, the distant groups of cottonwood-trees, the wagons
in our train, and the flocks of wild geese flying northward through
the sky, seemed golden and rosy. Not the least wind moved the grass;
from a distance came to us the sound of rapids, which the Cedar River
formed in that place, and the neighing of horses from the direction
of the camp. That evening with such charms, that virgin land, and the
presence of Lillian, brought me to such a state of mind that my soul
was almost ready to fly out of me somewhere to the sky. I thought
myself a shaken bell, as it were. At moments I wanted to take Lillian’s
hand again, raise it to my lips, and not put it down for a long time;
but I feared lest this might offend her. Meanwhile she walked on near
me, calm, mild, and thoughtful. Her tears had dried already; at moments
she raised her bright eyes to me; then we began to speak again,—and so
reached the camp.
That day, in which I had experienced so many emotions, was to end
joyfully, for the people, pleased with the beautiful weather, had
resolved to have a “picnic,” or open air festival. After a supper more
abundant than usual, one great fire was kindled, before which there
was to be dancing. Henry Simpson had cleared away the grass purposely
from a space of many square yards, and sprinkled it with sand brought
from Cedar River. When the spectators had assembled on the place thus
prepared, Simpson began to dance a jig, with the accompaniment of negro
flutes, to the admiration of all. With hands hanging at his sides he
kept his whole body motionless; but his feet were working so nimbly,
striking the ground in turn with heel and toe, that their movement
could hardly be followed by the eye.
Meanwhile the flutes played madly; a second dancer came out, a third,
then a fourth,—and the fun was universal. The audience joined the
negroes who were playing on the flutes, and thrummed on tin pans,
intended for washing the gold-bearing earth, or kept time with pieces
of ox-ribs held between the fingers of each hand, which gave out a
sound like the clatter of castanets.
Suddenly the cry of “minstrels! minstrels!” was heard through the whole
camp. The audience formed a circle around the dancing-place; into this
stepped our negroes, Jim and Crow. Jim held a little drum covered with
snake-skin, Crow the pieces of ox-rib mentioned already. For a time
they stared at each other, rolling the whites of their eyes; then they
began to sing a negro song, interrupted by stamping and violent springs
of the body; at times the song was sad, at times wild. The prolonged
“Dinah! ah! ah!” with which each verse ended, changed at length into a
shout, and almost into a howling like that of beasts. As the dancers
warmed up and grew excited, their movements became wilder, and at last
they fell to butting each other with blows from which European skulls
would have cracked like nutshells. Those black figures, shone upon by
the bright gleam of the fire and springing in wild leaps, presented
a spectacle truly fantastic. With their shouts and the sounds of the
drum, pipes, and tin pans, and the click of the bones, were mingled
shouts of the spectators: “Hurrah for Jim! Hurrah for Crow!” and then
shots from revolvers.
When at last the black men were wearied and had fallen on the ground,
they began to labor with their breasts and to pant. I commanded to
give each a drink of brandy; this put them on their feet again. But at
that moment the people began to call for a “speech.” In an instant the
uproar and music ceased. I had to drop Lillian’s arm, climb to the seat
of a wagon, and turn to those present. When I looked from my height on
those forms illuminated by the fires, forms large, broad-shouldered,
bearded, with knives at their girdles, and hats with torn crowns, it
seemed to me that I was in some theatre, or had become a chieftain of
robbers. They were honest brave hearts, however, though the rough life
of more than one of these men was stormy perhaps and half wild; but
here we formed, as it were, a little world torn away from the rest
of society and confined to ourselves, destined to a common fate and
threatened by common dangers. Here shoulder had to touch shoulder;
each felt that he was brother to the next man; the roadless places and
boundless deserts with which we were surrounded commanded those hardy
miners to love one another. The sight of Lillian, the poor defenceless
maiden, fearless among them and safe as if under her father’s roof,
brought those thoughts to my head; hence I told everything, just as
I felt it, and as befitted a soldier leader who was at the same time
a brother of wanderers. Every little while they interrupted me with
cries: “Hurrah for the Pole! Hurrah for the captain! Hurrah for Big
Ralph!” and with clapping of hands; but what made me happiest of all
was to see between the network of those sunburnt strong hands one pair
of small palms, rosy with the gleam of the fire and flying like a pair
of white doves. I felt then at once, What care I for the desert, the
wild beasts, the Indians and the “outlaws”? and cried with mighty
ardor, “I will conquer anything, I will kill anything that comes in
my way, and lead the train even to the end of the earth,—and may God
forget my right hand, if this is not true!” A still louder “Hurrah!”
answered these words, and all began to sing with great enthusiasm
the emigrants’ song: “I crossed the Mississippi, I will cross the
Missouri.” Then Smith, the oldest among the emigrants, a miner from
near Pittsburgh in Pennsylvania, spoke in answer. He thanked me in the
name of the whole company, and lauded my skill in leading the caravan.
After Smith, from nearly every wagon a man spoke. Some made very
amusing remarks, for instance Henry Simpson, who cried out every little
while: “Gentlemen! I’ll be hanged if I don’t tell the truth!” When
the speakers had grown hoarse at last, the flutes sounded, the bones
rattled, and the men began to dance a jig again.
Night had fallen completely; the moon came out in the sky and shone so
brightly that the flame of the fires almost paled before its gleams;
the people and the wagons were illuminated doubly by a red and a white
light. That was a beautiful night. The uproar of our camp offered a
strange but pleasing contrast to the calmness and deep slumber of the
prairie.
Taking Lillian’s arm, I went with her around the whole camp; our gaze
passed from the fires to the distance, and was lost in the waves of
the tall and dark grasses of the prairie, silvery from the rays of
the moon and as mysterious as spirits. We strolled alone in that way.
Meanwhile, at one of the fires, two Scottish Highlanders began to play
on pipes their plaintive air of “Bonnie Dundee.” We both stopped at a
distance and listened for some time in silence; all at once I looked
at Lillian, she dropped her eyes,—and without knowing myself why I did
so, I pressed to my heart long and powerfully that hand which she had
rested on my arm. In Lillian too the poor heart began to beat with
such force that I felt it as clearly as if on my palm; we trembled,
for we saw that something was rising between us, that that something
was conquering, and that we would not be to each other as we had been
hitherto. As to me I was swimming already whithersoever that current
was bearing me. I forgot that the night was so bright, that the fires
were not distant, and that there were people around them; and I wanted
to fall at her feet at once, or at least to look into her eyes. But
she, though leaning on my arm, turned her head, as if glad to hide her
face in the shade. I wished to speak but could not; for it seemed to
me that I should call out with some voice not my own, or if I should
say the words “I love” to Lillian I should drop to the earth. I was
not bold, being young then, and was led not by my thoughts simply, but
by my soul too; and I felt this also clearly, that if I should say
“I love,” a curtain would fall on my past; one door would close and
another would open, through which I should pass into a certain new
region. Hence, though I saw happiness beyond that threshold I halted,
for this very reason it may be,—that the brightness beating from out
that place dazzled me. Besides, when loving comes not from the lips,
but the heart, there is perhaps nothing so difficult to speak about.
I had dared to press Lillian’s hand to my breast; we were silent, for
I had not the boldness to mention love, and I had no wish to speak of
aught else,—it was impossible at such a time.
It ended with this, that we both raised our heads and looked at the
stars, like people who are praying. Then some one at the great fire
called me; we returned; the festival had closed, but to end it
worthily and well, the emigrants had determined to sing a psalm before
going to rest. The men had uncovered their heads, and though among them
were persons of various faiths, all knelt on the grass of the prairie
and began to sing the psalm, “Wandering in the Wilderness.” The sight
was impressive. At moments of rest the silence became so perfect that
the crackling of sparks in the fire could be heard, and from the river
the sound of the waterfalls came to us.
Kneeling near Lillian, I looked once or twice at her face; her
eyes were uplifted and wonderfully shining, her hair was a little
disarranged; and, singing the hymn with devotion, she was so like an
angel, that it seemed almost possible to pray to her.
After the psalm, the people went to their wagons. I, according to
custom, repaired to the sentries, and then to my rest, like the others.
But this time when the mosquitoes began to sing in my ears, as they
did every evening, “Lillian! Lillian! Lillian!” I knew that in that
wagon beyond there was sleeping the sight of my eye and the soul of my
soul, and that in all the world there was nothing dearer to me than
that maiden.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: CHAPTER III]
AT dawn the following day we passed Cedar River successfully and
came out on a level, broad prairie, stretching between that river
and the Winnebago, which curved imperceptibly to the south, toward
the belt of forests lying along the lower boundary of Iowa. From the
morning Lillian had not dared to look in my eyes. I saw that she
was thoughtful; it seemed as though she were ashamed of something,
or troubled for some cause; but still what sin had we committed the
evening before? She scarcely left the wagon. Aunt Atkins and Aunt
Grosvenor, thinking that she was ill, surrounded her with care and
tenderness. I alone knew what that meant,—that it was neither weakness,
nor pangs of conscience; it was the struggle of an innocent being with
the presentiment that a power new and unknown is bearing it, like a
leaf, to some place far away. It was a clear insight that there was no
help, and that sooner or later she would have to weaken and yield to
the will of that power, forget everything,—and only love.
A pure soul draws back and is afraid on the threshold of love, but
feeling that it will cross, it weakens. Lillian therefore was as if
wearied by a dream; but when I understood all that, the breath in
my breast was nearly stopped from joy. I know not whether it was an
honorable feeling, but when in the morning I flew past her wagon and
saw her, broken like a flower, I felt something akin to what a bird of
prey feels, when it knows that the dove will not escape. And still I
would not do an injustice to that dove for any treasure on earth, for
with love I had in my heart at the same time an immense compassion.
A wonderful thing however: notwithstanding my feeling for Lillian,
the whole day passed for us as if in mutual offence, or at least in
perplexity. I was racking my head to discover how I could be alone
even for a moment with her, but could not discover. Fortunately Aunt
Atkins came to my aid; she declared that the little one needed more
exercise, that confinement in the stifling wagon was injuring her
health. I fell upon the thought that she ought to ride on horseback,
and ordered Simpson to saddle a horse for her; and though there were
no side-saddles in the train, one of those Mexican saddles with a high
pommel which women use everywhere on the frontier prairies, could
serve her very well. I forbade Lillian to loiter behind far enough to
drop out of view. To be lost in the open prairie was rather difficult,
because people, whom I sent out for game, circled about a considerable
distance in every direction. There was no danger from the Indians, for
that part of the prairie, as far as the Winnebago, was visited by the
Pawnees only during the great hunts, which had not begun yet. But the
southern forest-tract abounded in wild beasts, not all of which were
grass eating; wariness, therefore, was far from superfluous.
To tell the truth I thought that Lillian would keep near me for safety;
this would permit us to be alone rather frequently. Usually I pushed
forward in time of march some distance, having before me only the two
half-breed scouts, and behind the whole caravan. So it happened in
fact, and I was at once inexpressibly and truly happy, the first day,
when I saw my sweet Amazon moving forward at a light gallop from the
direction of the train. The movement of the horse unwound her tresses
somewhat, and care for her skirt, which was the least trifle short for
the saddle, had painted her face with a charming anxiety. When she
came up she was like a rose; for she knew that she was going into a
trap laid by me so that we might be alone with each other, and knowing
this she came, though blushing, and as if unwilling, feigning that she
knew nothing. My heart beat as if I had been a young student; and, when
our horses were abreast, I was angry with myself, because I knew not
what to say. At the same time such sweet and powerful desires began to
go between us, that I, urged by some unseen power, bent toward Lillian
as if to straighten something in the mane of her horse, and meanwhile
I pressed my lips to her hand, which was resting on the pommel of the
saddle. A certain unknown and unspeakable happiness, greater and keener
than all delights that I had known in life till that moment, passed
through my bones. I pressed that little hand to my heart and began to
tell Lillian, that if God had bestowed all the kingdoms of the earth on
me, and all the treasures in existence, I would not give for anything
one tress of her hair, for she had taken me soul and body forever.
“Lillian, Lillian,” said I further, “I will never leave you. I will
follow you through mountains and deserts, I will kiss your feet and
I will pray to you; only love me a little, only tell me that in your
heart I mean something.”
Thus speaking, I thought that my bosom would burst, when she, with the
greatest confusion, began to repeat,—
“O Ralph! you know well! you know everything!”
I did not know just this, whether to laugh or to cry, whether to run
away or to remain; and, as I hope for salvation to-day, I felt saved
then, for nothing in the world was lacking to me.
Thenceforth so far as my occupations permitted, we were always
together. And those occupations decreased every day till we reached
the Missouri. Perhaps no caravan had more success than ours during the
first month of the journey. Men and animals were growing accustomed
to order and skilled in travelling; hence I had less need to look
after them, while the confidence which the people gave me upheld
perfect order in the train. Besides, abundance of provisions and the
fine spring weather roused joyfulness and increased good health. I
convinced myself daily, that my bold plan of conducting the caravan not
by the usual route through St. Louis and Kansas, but through Iowa and
Nebraska, was best. There heat almost unendurable tortured people, and
in the unhealthy region between the Mississippi and Missouri fevers and
other diseases thinned the ranks of emigrants; here, by reason of the
cooler climate, cases of weakness were fewer, and our labor was less.
It is true that the road by St. Louis was in the earlier part of it
freer from Indians; but my train, composed of two or three hundred
men well furnished with weapons and ready for fighting, had no cause
to fear wild tribes, especially those inhabiting Iowa, who though
meeting white men oftener, and, having more frequent experience of what
their hands could do, had not the courage to rush at large parties.
It was only needful to guard against stampedes, or night attacks on
mules and horses,—the loss of draught-animals puts a caravan on the
prairies in a terrible position. But against that there was diligence
and the experience of sentries who, for the greater part, were as well
acquainted with the stratagems of Indians as I was.
When once I had introduced travelling discipline and made men
accustomed to it, I had incomparably less to do during the day, and
could devote more time to the feelings which had seized my heart.
In the evening I went to sleep with the thought: “To-morrow I shall
see Lillian;” in the morning I said to myself: “To-day I shall see
Lillian;” and every day I was happier and every day more in love. In
the caravan people began by degrees to notice this; but no one took it
ill of me, for Lillian and I possessed the good-will of those people.
Once old Smith said in passing: “God bless you, captain, and you,
Lillian.” That connecting of our names made us happy all day. Aunt
Grosvenor and Aunt Atkins whispered something frequently in Lillian’s
ear, which made her blush like the dawn, but she would never tell me
what it was. Henry Simpson looked on us rather gloomily,—perhaps he was
forging some plan in his soul, but I paid no heed to that.
Every morning at four I was at the head of the caravan; before me the
scouts, some fifteen hundred yards distant, sang songs, which their
Indian mothers had taught them; behind me at the same distance moved
the caravan, like a white ribbon on the prairie,—and what a wonderful
moment, when, about two hours later, I hear on a sudden behind me the
tramp of a horse. I look, and behold the sight of my soul, my beloved
is approaching. The morning breeze bears behind her her hair, which
either had been loosened from the movement, or badly fastened on
purpose, for the little rogue knew that she looked better that way,
that I liked her that way, and that when the wind threw the tress on me
I pressed it to my lips. I feign not to notice her tricks, and in this
agreeable meeting the morning begins for us. I taught her the Polish
phrase: “Dzien dobry” (good morning). When I heard her pronouncing
those words, she seemed still dearer; the memory of my country, of my
family, of years gone by, of that which had been, of that which had
passed, flew before my eyes on that prairie like mews of the ocean.
More than once I would have broken out in weeping, but from shame I
restrained with my eyelids the tears that were ready to flow. She,
seeing that the heart was melting in me, repeated like a trained
starling: “Dzien dobry! dzien dobry! dzien dobry!” And how was I not to
love my starling beyond everything? I taught her then other phrases;
and when her lips struggled with our difficult sounds, and I laughed at
a faulty pronunciation, she pouted like a little child, feigning anger
and resentment. But we had no quarrels, and once only a cloud flew
between us. One morning I pretended to tighten a strap on her stirrup,
but in truth the leopard Uhlan was roused in me, and I began to kiss
her foot, or rather the poor shoe worn out in the wilderness. Then she
drew her foot close to the horse, and repeating: “No, Ralph! no! no!”
sprang to one side; and though I implored and strove to pacify her she
would not come near me. She did not return to the caravan, however,
fearing to pain me too much. I feigned a sorrow a hundred times greater
than I felt in reality, and sinking into silence, rode on as if all
things had ended on earth for me. I knew that compassion would stir in
her, as indeed it did; for soon, alarmed at my silence, she began to
ride up at one side and look at my eyes, like a child which wants to
know if its mother is angry yet,—and I, wishing to preserve a gloomy
visage, had to turn aside to avoid laughing aloud.
But this was one time only. Usually we were as gladsome as prairie
squirrels, and sometimes, God forgive me, I, the leader of that
caravan, became a child with her. More than once when we were riding
side by side I would turn on a sudden, saying to her that I had
something important and new to tell, and when she held her inquisitive
ear I whispered into it: “I love.” Then she also whispered into my
ear in answer, with a smile and blush, “I also!” And thus we confided
our secrets to each other on the prairie, where the wind alone could
overhear us.
In this manner day shot after day so quickly, that, as I thought, the
morning seemed to touch the evening like links in a chain. At times
some event of the journey would vary such pleasant monotony. A certain
Sunday the half-breed Wichita caught with a lasso an antelope of a
large kind, and with her a fawn which I gave to Lillian, who made for
it a collar on which was put a bell, taken from a mule. This fawn we
called Katty. In a week it was tame, and ate from our hands. During
the march I would ride on one side of Lillian, and Katty would run on
the other, raising its great black eyes and begging with a bleat for
caresses.
Beyond the Winnebago we came out on a plain as level as a table, broad,
rich, primeval. The scouts vanished from our eyes at times in the
grass; our horses waded, as if in a river. I showed Lillian that world
altogether new to her, and when she was delighted with its beauties,
I felt proud that that kingdom of mine was so pleasing to her. It was
spring,—April was barely reaching its end, the time of richest growth
for grasses of all sorts. What was to bloom on the plains was blooming
already.
In the evening such intoxicating odors came from the prairie, as from
a thousand censers; in the day, when the wind blew and shook the
flowery expanse, the eye was just pained with the glitter of red,
blue, yellow, and colors of all kinds. From the dense bed shot up the
slender stalks of yellow flowers, like our mullein; around these wound
the silver threads of a plant called “tears,” whose clusters, composed
of transparent little balls, are really like tears. My eyes, used to
reading in the prairie, discovered repeatedly plants that I knew: now
it was the large-leaved kalumna, which cures wounds; now the plant
called “white and red stockings,” which closes its cups at the approach
of man or beast; finally, “Indian hatchets,” the odor of which brings
sleep and almost takes away consciousness. I taught Lillian at that
time to read in this Divine book, saying,—