On the great plain of Texas, about a hundred miles southward from the
old Spanish town of San Antonio de Bejar, the noonday sun is shedding
his beams from a sky of cerulean brightness. Under the golden light
appears a group of objects, but little in unison with the landscape
around them: since they betoken the presence of human beings, in a spot
where there is no sign of human habitation.
The objects in question are easily identified--even at a great distance.
They are waggons; each covered with its ribbed and rounded tilt of
snow-white "Osnaburgh."
There are ten of them--scarce enough to constitute a "caravan" of
traders, nor yet a "government train." They are more likely the
individual property of an emigrant; who has landed upon the coast, and
is wending his way to one of the late-formed settlements on the Leona.
Slowly crawling across the savannah, it could scarce be told that they
are in motion; but for their relative-position, in long serried line,
indicating the order of march.
The dark bodies between each two declare that the teams are attached;
and that they are making progress is proved, by the retreating antelope,
scared from its noonday _siesta_, and the long-shanked curlew, rising
with a screech from the sward--both bird and beast wondering at the
string of strange _behemoths_, thus invading their wilderness domain.
Elsewhere upon the prairie, no movement may be detected--either of bird
or quadruped. It is the time of day when all tropical life becomes
torpid, or seeks repose in the shade; man alone, stimulated by the love
of gain, or the promptings of ambition, disregarding the laws of nature,
and defying the fervour of the sun.
So seems it with the owner of the tilted train; who, despite the
relaxing influence of the fierce mid-day heat, keeps moving on.
That he is an emigrant--and not one of the ordinary class--is evidenced
in a variety of ways. The ten large waggons of Pittsburgh build, each
hauled by eight able-bodied mules; their miscellaneous contents:
plenteous provisions, articles of costly furniture, even of _luxe_, live
stock in the shape of coloured women and children; the groups of black
and yellow bondsmen, walking alongside, or straggling foot-sore in the
rear; the light travelling carriage in the lead, drawn by a span of
sleek-coated Kentucky mules, and driven by a black Jehu, sweltering in a
suit of livery; all bespeak, not a poor Northern-States settler in
search of a new home, but a rich Southerner who has already purchased
one, and is on his way to take possession of it.
And this is the exact story of the train. It is the property of a
planter who has landed at Indianola, on the Gulf of Matagorda; and is
now travelling overland--_en route_ for his destination.
In the _cortege_ that accompanies it, riding habitually at its head, is
the planter himself--Woodley Poindexter--a tall thin man of fifty, with
a slightly sallowish complexion, and aspect proudly severe. He is
simply though not inexpensively clad: in a loosely fitting frock of
alpaca cloth, a waistcoat of black satin, and trousers of nankin. A
shirt of finest linen shows its plaits through the opening of his vest--
its collar embraced by a piece of black ribbon; while the shoe, resting
in his stirrup, is of finest tanned leather. His features are shaded by
a broad-brimmed Leghorn hat.
Two horsemen are riding alongside--one on his right, the other on the
left--a stripling scarce twenty, and a young man six or seven years
older. The former is his son--a youth, whose open cheerful countenance
contrasts, not only with the severe aspect of his father, but with the
somewhat sinister features on the other side, and which belong to his
cousin.
The youth is dressed in a French blouse of sky-coloured "cottonade,"
with trousers of the same material; a most appropriate costume for a
southern climate, and which, with the Panama hat upon his head, is
equally becoming.
The cousin, an ex-officer of volunteers, affects a military undress of
dark blue cloth, with a forage cap to correspond.
There is another horseman riding near, who, only on account of having a
white skin--not white for all that--is entitled to description. His
coarser features, and cheaper habiliments; the keel-coloured "cowhide"
clutched in his right hand, and flirted with such evident skill,
proclaim him the overseer--and whipper up--of the swarthy pedestrians
composing the _entourage_ of the train.
The travelling carriage, which is a "carriole"--a sort of cross between
a Jersey waggon and a barouche--has two occupants. One is a young lady
of the whitest skin; the other a girl of the blackest. The former is
the daughter of Woodley Poindexter--his only daughter. She of the sable
complexion is the young lady's handmaid.
The emigrating party is from the "coast" of the Mississippi--from
Louisiana. The planter is not himself a native of this State--in other
words a _Creole_; but the type is exhibited in the countenance of his
son--still more in that fair face, seen occasionally through the
curtains of the carriole, and whose delicate features declare descent
from one of those endorsed damsels--_filles a la casette_--who, more
than a hundred years ago, came across the Atlantic provided with proofs
of their virtue--in the _casket_!
A grand sugar planter of the South is Woodley Poindexter; one of the
highest and haughtiest of his class; one of the most profuse in
aristocratic hospitalities: hence the necessity of forsaking his
Mississippian home, and transferring himself and his "penates,"--with
only a remnant of his "niggers,"--to the wilds of south-western Texas.
The sun is upon the meridian line, and almost in the zenith. The
travellers tread upon their own shadows. Enervated by the excessive
heat, the white horsemen sit silently in their saddles. Even the dusky
pedestrians, less sensible to its influence, have ceased their garrulous
"gumbo;" and, in straggling groups, shamble listlessly along in the rear
of the waggons.
The silence--solemn as that of a funereal procession--is interrupted
only at intervals by the pistol-like crack of a whip, or the loud
"wo-ha," delivered in deep baritone from the thick lips of some sable
teamster.
Slowly the train moves on, as if groping its way. There is no regular
road. The route is indicated by the wheel-marks of some vehicles that
have passed before--barely conspicuous, by having crushed the culms of
the shot grass.
Notwithstanding the slow progress, the teams are doing their best. The
planter believes himself within less than twenty miles of the end of his
journey. He hopes to reach it before night: hence the march continued
through the mid-day heat.
Unexpectedly the drivers are directed to pull up, by a sign from the
overseer; who has been riding a hundred yards in the advance, and who is
seen to make a sudden stop--as if some obstruction had presented itself.
He comes trotting back towards the train. His gestures tell of
something amiss. What is it?
There has been much talk about Indians--of a probability of their being
encountered in this quarter.
Can it be the red-skinned marauders? Scarcely: the gestures of the
overseer do not betray actual alarm.
"What is it, Mr Sansom?" asked the planter, as the man rode up.
"The grass air burnt. The prairy's been afire."
"_Been_ on fire! Is it on fire _now_?" hurriedly inquired the owner of
the waggons, with an apprehensive glance towards the travelling
carriage. "Where? I see no smoke!"
"No, sir--no," stammered the overseer, becoming conscious that he had
caused unnecessary alarm; "I didn't say it air afire now: only thet it
hez been, an the hul ground air as black as the ten o' spades."
"Ta--tat! what of that? I suppose we can travel over a black prairie,
as safely as a green one?
"What nonsense of you, Josh Sansom, to raise such a row about nothing--
frightening people out of their senses! Ho! there, you niggers! Lay
the leather to your teams, and let the train proceed. Whip up!--whip
up!"
"But, Captain Calhoun," protested the overseer, in response to the
gentleman who had reproached him in such chaste terms; "how air we to
find the way?"
"Find the way! What are you raving about? We haven't lost it--have
we?"
"I'm afeerd we hev, though. The wheel-tracks ain't no longer to be
seen. They're burnt out, along wi' the grass."
"What matters that? I reckon we can cross a piece of scorched prairie,
without wheel-marks to guide us? We'll find them again on the other
side."
"Ye-es," naively responded the overseer, who, although a "down-easter,"
had been far enough west to have learnt something of frontier life; "if
theer air any other side. I kedn't see it out o' the seddle--ne'er a
sign o' it."
"Whip up, niggers! whip up!" shouted Calhoun, without heeding the
remark; and spurring onwards, as a sign that the order was to be obeyed.
The teams are again set in motion; and, after advancing to the edge of
the burnt tract, without instructions from any one, are once more
brought to a stand.
The white men on horseback draw together for a consultation. There is
need: as all are satisfied by a single glance directed to the ground
before them.
Far as the eye can reach the country is of one uniform colour--black as
Erebus. There is nothing green--not a blade of grass--not a reed nor
weed!
It is after the summer solstice. The ripened culms of the _gramineae_,
and the stalks of the prairie flowers, have alike crumbled into dust
under the devastating breath of fire.
In front--on the right and left--to the utmost verge of vision extends
the scene of desolation. Over it the cerulean sky is changed to a
darker blue; the sun, though clear of clouds, seems to scowl rather than
shine--as if reciprocating the frown of the earth.
The overseer has made a correct report--there is no trail visible. The
action of the fire, as it raged among the ripe grass, has eliminated the
impression of the wheels hitherto indicating the route. "What are we to
do?"
The planter himself put this inquiry, in a tone that told of a
vacillating spirit.
"Do, uncle Woodley! What else but keep straight on? The river must be
on the other side? If we don't hit the crossing, to a half mile or so,
we can go up, or down the bank--as the case may require."
"But, Cassius: if we should lose our way?"
"We can't. There's but a patch of this, I suppose? If we do go a
little astray, we must come out somewhere--on one side, or the other."
"Well, nephew, you know best: I shall be guided by you."
"No fear, uncle. I've made my way out of a worse fix than this. Drive
on, niggers! Keep straight after _me_."
The ex-officer of volunteers, casting a conceited glance towards the
travelling carriage--through the curtains of which appears a fair face,
slightly shadowed with anxiety--gives the spur to his horse; and with
confident air trots onward.
A chorus of whipcracks is succeeded by the trampling of fourscore mules,
mingled with the clanking of wheels against their hubs. The
waggon-train is once more in motion.
The mules step out with greater rapidity. The sable surface, strange to
their eyes, excites them to brisker action--causing them to raise the
hoof, as soon as it touches the turf. The younger animals show fear--
snorting, as they advance.
In time their apprehensions become allayed; and, taking the cue from
their older associates, they move on steadily as before.
A mile or more is made, apparently in a direct line from the point of
starting. Then there is a halt. The self-appointed guide has ordered
it. He has reined up his horse; and is sitting in the saddle with less
show of confidence. He appears to be puzzled about the direction.
The landscape--if such it may be called--has assumed a change; though
not for the better. It is still sable as ever, to the verge of the
horizon. But the surface is no longer a plain: it _rolls_. There are
ridges--gentle undulations--with valleys between. They are not entirely
treeless--though nothing that may be termed a tree is in sight. There
have been such, before the fire--_algarobias, mezquites_, and others of
the acacia family--standing solitary, or in copses. Their light pinnate
foliage has disappeared like flax before the flame. Their existence is
only evidenced by charred trunks, and blackened boughs.
"You've lost the way, nephew?" said the planter, riding rapidly up.
"No uncle--not yet. I've only stopped to have a look. It must lie in
this direction--down that valley. Let them drive on. We're going all
right--I'll answer for it."
Once more in motion--adown the slope--then along the valley--then up the
acclivity of another ridge--and then there is a second stoppage upon its
crest.
"You've lost the way, Cash?" said the planter, coming up and repeating
his former observation.
"Damned if I don't believe I have, uncle!" responded the nephew, in a
tone of not very respectful mistrust. "Anyhow; who the devil could find
his way out of an ashpit like this? No, no!" he continued, reluctant to
betray his embarrassment as the carriole came up. "I see now. We're
all right yet. The river must be in this direction. Come on!"
On goes the guide, evidently irresolute. On follow the sable teamsters,
who, despite their stolidity, do not fail to note some signs of
vacillation. They can tell that they are no longer advancing in a
direct line; but circuitously among the copses, and across the glades
that stretch between.
All are gratified by a shout from the conductor, announcing recovered
confidence. In response there is a universal explosion of whipcord,
with joyous exclamations.
Once more they are stretching their teams along a travelled road--where
a half-score of wheeled vehicles must have passed before them. And not
long before: the wheel-tracks are of recent impress--the hoof-prints of
the animals fresh as if made within the hour. A train of waggons, not
unlike their own, must have passed over the burnt prairie!
Like themselves, it could only be going towards the Leona: perhaps some
government convoy on its way to Fort Inge? In that case they have only
to keep in the same track. The Fort is on the line of their march--but
a short distance beyond the point where their journey is to terminate.
Nothing could be more opportune. The guide, hitherto perplexed--though
without acknowledging it--is at once relieved of all anxiety; and with a
fresh exhibition of conceit, orders the route to be resumed.
For a mile or more the waggon-tracks are followed--not in a direct line,
but bending about among the skeleton copses. The countenance of Cassius
Calhoun, for a while wearing a confident look, gradually becomes
clouded. It assumes the profoundest expression of despondency, on
discovering that the four-and-forty wheel-tracks he is following, have
been made by ten Pittsburgh waggons, and a carriole--the same that are
now following him, and in whose company he has been travelling _all the
way from the Gulf of Matagorda_!