THE GATEWAY, AND SOME WHO PASSED
When Captain Edward Carlisle made casual reference to the
"weak-kneed compromise," he simply voiced a personal opinion on a
theme which was in the mind of every American, and one regarded
with as many minds as there were men. That political measure of
the day was hated by some, admired by others. This man condemned
it, that cried aloud its righteousness and infallibility; one
argued for it shrewdly, another declaimed against it loudly. It
was alike blessed and condemned. The southern states argued over
it, many of the northern states raged at it. It ruined many
political fortunes and made yet other fortunes. That year was a
threshold-time in our history, nor did any see what lay beyond the
door.
If there existed then a day when great men and great measures were
to be born, certainly there lay ready a stage fit for any mighty
drama--indeed, commanding it. It was a young world withal, indeed
a world not even yet explored, far less exploited, so far as were
concerned those vast questions which, in its dumb and blind way,
humanity both sides of the sea then was beginning to take up.
America scarce more than a half century ago was for the most part a
land of query, rather than of hope.
Not even in their query were the newer lands of our country then
alike. We lay in a vast chance-medley, and never had any country
greater need for care and caution in its councils. By the grace of
the immortal gods we had had given into our hands an enormous area
of the earth's richest inheritance, to have and to hold, if that
might be; but as yet we were not one nation. We had no united
thought, no common belief as to what was national wisdom. For
three quarters of a century this country had grown; for half a
century it had been divided, one section fighting against another
in all but arms. We spoke of America even then as a land of the
free, but it was not free; nor on the other hand was it wholly
slave. Never in the history of the world has there been so great a
land, nor one of so diverse systems of government.
Before these travelers, for instance, who paused here at the head
of the Ohio River, there lay the ancient dividing line between the
South and the North. To the northwest, between the Great Lakes and
the Ohio, swept a vast land which, since the days of the old
Northwest Ordinance of 1787, had by _national_ enactment been
decreed for ever free. Part of this had the second time been
declared free, by _state_ law also. To the eastward of this lay
certain states where slavery had been forbidden by the laws of the
several states, though not by that of the nation. Again, far out
to the West, beyond the great waterway on one of whose arms our
travelers now stood, lay the vast provinces bought from Napoleon;
and of these, all lying north of that compromise line of thirty-six
degrees, thirty minutes, agreed upon in 1820, had been declared for
ever free by _national_ law. Yet beyond this, in the extreme
northwest, lay Oregon, fought through as free soil by virtue of the
old Northwest Ordinance, the sleeping dog of slavery being evaded
and left to lie when the question of Oregon came up. Along the
Pacific, and south of Oregon, lay the new empire of California,
bitterly contended over by both sections, but by her own
self-elected _state_ law declared for ever free soil. Minnesota
and the Dakotas were still unorganized, so there the sleeping dog
might lie, of course.
To the south of that river on which our voyagers presently were to
take ship, lay a section comprising the southern states, in extent
far larger than all the northern states, and much stronger in
legislative total power in the national halls of Congress. Here
slavery was maintained by laws of the _states_ themselves. The
great realm of Texas, long coveted by the South, now was joined to
the ranks of the slave-holding states, by virtue of a war of
somewhat doubtful justice though of undoubted success. Above
Texas, and below the line of thirty-six degrees, thirty minutes,
lay a portion of what was known as the Indian country, where in
1820 there had been made no _prohibition_ of slavery by the
_national_ government.
Above the line of thirty-six degrees, thirty minutes, there thrust
up a portion of Texas which had no law at all, nor had it any until
a very recent day, being known under the title of "No Man's Land."
Yet on to the westward, toward free California, lay a vast but
supposedly valueless region where cotton surely would not grow,
that rich country now known as Utah, Nevada, Arizona and New
Mexico. This region, late gained by war from Mexico, soon to be
increased by purchase from Mexico on the South, was still of
indeterminate status, slavery not being prohibited but permitted,
by _federal_ action, although most of this territory had been free
soil under the old laws of Mexico. Moreover, as though
sardonically to complicate all these much-mingled matters, there
thrust up to the northward, out of the permitted slavery region of
the South, the state of Missouri, quite above the fateful line of
thirty-six degrees, thirty minutes, where slavery was permitted
both by _federal_ and _state_ enactment.
Men spoke even then, openly or secretly, of disunion; but in full
truth, there had as yet been no actual union. In such confusion,
what man could call unwise a halting-time, a compromise? A country
of tenures so mixed, of theories so diverse, could scarcely have
been called a land of common government. It arrogated to itself,
over all its dominion, the title of a free republic, yet by its own
mutual covenant of national law, any owner of slaves in the
southern states might pursue what he called his property across the
dividing line, and invoke, in any northern state, the support of
the state or national officers to assist him in taking back his
slaves. As a republic we called ourselves even then old and
stable. Yet was ever any country riper for misrule than ours?
Forgetting now what is buried, the old arguments all forgot, that
most bloody and most lamentable war all forgot, could any mind, any
imagination, depict a situation more rife with tumult, more ripe
for war than this? And was it not perforce an issue, of compromise
or war; of compromise, or a union never to be consummated?
Yet into this heterogeneous region, from all Europe, itself
convulsed with revolution, Europe just beginning to awaken to the
doctrine of the rights of humanity, there pressed westward ever
increasing thousands of new inhabitants--in that current year over
a third of a million, the largest immigration thus far known. Most
of these immigrants settled in the free country of the North, and
as the railways were now so hurriedly crowding westward, it was to
be seen that the ancient strife between North and South must grow
and not lessen, for these new-comers were bitterly opposed to
slavery. Swiftly the idea national was growing. The idea
democratic, the idea of an actual self-government--what, now, was
to be its history?
North of the fated compromise line, west of the admitted slave
state of Missouri, lay other rich lands ripe for the plow, ready
for Americans who had never paid more than a dollar an acre for
land, or for aliens who had never been able to own any land at all.
Kansas and Nebraska, names conceived but not yet born,--what would
they be? Would the compromise of this last summer of 1850 hold the
balances of power even? Could it save this republic, still young
and needy, for yet a time in the cause of peace and growth? Many
devoutly hoped it. Many devoutly espoused the cause of compromise
merely for the sake of gaining time. As neither of the great
political parties of the day filled its ranks from either section,
so in both sections there were many who espoused, as many who
denied, the right of men to own slaves. We speak of slavery as the
one great question of that day. It was not and never has been the
greatest. The question of democracy--that was even then, and it is
now, the greatest question.
Here on the deck of the steamer at the little city of Pittsburg,
then gateway of the West, there appeared men of purposes and
beliefs as mixed as this mixed country from which they came. Some
were pushing out into what now is known as Kansas, others going to
take up lands in Missouri. Some were to pass south to the slave
country, others north to the free lands; men of all sorts and
conditions, many men, of many minds, that was true, and all
hurrying into new lands, new problems, new dangers, new remedies.
It was a great and splendid day, a great and vital time, that
threshold-time, when our western traffic increased so rapidly and
assuredly that steamers scarcely could be built rapidly enough to
accommodate it, and the young rails leaped westward at a speed
before then unknown in the world.
Carried somehow, somewhither, for some reason, on these surging
floods, were these travelers, of errand not wholly obvious to their
fellows, yet of such sort as to call into query alike the nature of
their errand and their own relations. It is easily earned
repetition to state that Josephine St. Auban's was a presence not
to be concealed. Even such a boat as the Mount Vernon offered a
total deck space so cramped as to leave secrecy or privacy well out
of the question, even had the motley and democratic assemblage of
passengers been disposed to accord either. Yet there was something
in the appearance of this young woman and her companion which
caused all the heterogeneous groups of humanity to make way for
them, as presently they approached the gang-plank.
Apparently they were not unexpected. The ship's clerks readily led
the way to apartments which had been secured in advance. Having
seen to the luggage of his charges, whom he disposed in a good
double state-room, the leader of the party repaired to his own
quarters. Tarrying no longer than to see his own luggage safe
aboard, he commanded one of the men to fetch him to the office of
the captain.
The latter gentleman, busy and important, dropped much of his
official way when he found whom he was accosting. "This is quite
unexpected, sir," he began, removing his cap and bowing.
"Captain Rogers," began the other, "you have been advised to some
extent of my plans by telegram from Washington."
The captain hesitated. "Is this with the lady's consent? I must
consider the question of damages."
"There will be no damages. Your owners will be quite safe, and so
will you."
"Are there any charges of any kind against----?"
"That is not for you to ask. She is under my care, and must not
disembark until I say the word. You will kindly give her a place
at my table. There must be no idle curiosity to annoy her. But
tell me, when shall we reach the mouth of the river? Is it not
possible to save some time by avoiding some of the smaller stops?"
"But our freight, our passengers--" The captain passed a hand
across his brow, much perplexed. The other showed a sudden
firmness.
"My errand demands secrecy and speed alike. There must be no
communication between this boat and the shore, so far as this young
lady is concerned. Meantime, if all is ready, it would please me
mightily if we could start."
The captain pulled a bell rope. "Tell the mate to cast off," he
said, to the man who answered. An instant later the hoarse boom of
the boat's whistles roared out their warning. There came a crush
of late-comers at the gangway. Shouts arose; deck hands scrambled
with the last packages of freight; but presently the staging was
shipped and all the lines cast free. Churning the stained waters
into foam with her great paddles, the _Mount Vernon_ swung slowly
out into the narrow stream.
[Illustration: The Captain pulled a bell rope.]
"Now, Captain Rogers," went on Captain Carlisle, tersely, "tell, me
who's aboard;" and presently he began to ponder the names which, in
loose fashion, the clerk assembled from his memory and his personal
acquaintance.
"Hm, Hm!" commented the listener, "very few whom I know. Judge
Clayton from the other side, below Cairo. State Senator Jones,
from Belmont--"
"You know Mr. Jones? Old 'Decline and Fall' Jones? He never reads
any book excepting Gibbon's _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_.
Always declines a drink when offered, but he's sure to fall a
moment later!" Thus the smiling clerk.
"Well, I may see Mr. Jones, possibly Judge Clayton. There's no one
else." He seemed not dissatisfied.
Alas! for human calculations and for human hopes! Even as he left
the captain's room to ascend the stair, he met face to face the
very man whose presence he least desired.
"Dunwody!" he exclaimed.
The gentleman thus addressed extended a hand. "I see you are safe
aboard. Myself, too, I am very glad."
"I thought you said you were going--"
"I was, but I changed my mind at the last moment. It is far more
comfortable going down by boat than it is by stage. Then, the
thought of the pleasure of your society on the journey--" He was
smiling, rather maliciously.
"Yes, yes, of course!" somewhat dismally.
"But now, to be frank with you, you don't seem altogether happy.
Why do you want to be rid of me? What harm have I done?" smiled
Dunwody.
"Oh, my dear sir!"
"May not one change his mind if he likes?"
"My dear sir, there is no argument about that."
"Certainly not! The only argument is on the previous
question--When are you going to introduce me as you should, to that
extremely beautiful young lady who is with you?"
"Good God, my very dear sir!"
"You are not 'my dear sir' at all, so long as you try to hoodwink
me," persisted Dunwody, still smiling. "Come, now, what are you
doing here, west bound with a young and charming person who is not
your wife, widow, mother, daughter, _fiancee_ or sister--who is
not--"
"That will do, if you please!" Carlisle's hot temper named into his
freckled face.
"Why so touchy?"
"It is within a man's rights to choose his own company and his own
ways. I am not accountable, except as I choose."
The other man was studying him closely, noting his flush, his
irritation, his uneasiness. "But what I am saying now is that it
is cruel, unusual, inhuman and unconstitutional to be so selfish
about it. Come, I shall only relent when you have shown yourself
more kind. For instance, in the matter of her table in the
dining-room--"
"The lady has expressed a desire to remain quite alone, my dear
sir. I must bow to her will. It is her privilege to come and go
as she likes."
"She may come and go as she likes?" queried Dunwody, still smiling.
There was a look on his face which caused Carlisle suddenly to turn
and examine him sharply.
"Naturally."
"Without your consent, even?"
"Absolutely so."
"Then why should she have sent me this little message?" demanded
Dunwody suddenly. He presented a folded bit of paper, snapping it
on the back with a finger.
A still deeper flush spread over the young officer's telltale face.
He opened and read: "If you care to aid a woman who is in trouble,
come to me at room 19 when you can."
"When did you receive this?" he demanded. "By God!" he added, to
himself, "she did it, too!"
"Within the moment. Her maid brought it."
"You didn't have this before you came on board--but of course, that
wasn't possible."
Dunwody looked at him keenly. "You have just heard me," he said.
"No, I don't deny there are some things here which I can't
understand. You are covering up something, my dear Captain, of
course, but just what I do not know. Your station in life, your
presence in this country, so far from home!--" He smiled now in a
way which his antagonist considered sinister. Yet what defense
could be made without exposing secrets which were not his to
uncover?
"Come," went on Dunwody, "let's be frank about it. You may trust
me, of course. But--neither sister, wife, nor servant--could you
blame any man, especially any man who had a direct message like
this, for wanting, or, say, even demanding a meeting? Haven't I
the right? Come, now!"
Carlisle made no immediate answer, and was about to turn on his
heel, finding it hard to restrain himself. He paused, however.
"Very good, then. To show how little you know me, and how much you
wrong both this lady and myself, you shall meet her, as you say.
Not that you have earned the right."