Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: BLACK HAWK RESCUING GILBERT'S FATHER AND MOTHER. PAGE 33]
*THE ROMANCE*
*OF*
*GILBERT HOLMES*
AN HISTORICAL NOVEL
BY
MARSHALL MONROE KIRKMAN
AUTHOR OF "THE SCIENCE OF RAILWAYS," IN TWELVE VOLUMES,
"PRIMITIVE CARRIERS," ETC., ETC.
THE WORLD RAILWAY PUBLISHING COMPANY
CHICAGO NEW YORK LONDON
1900
COPYRIGHT 1900
UNITED STATES, GREAT BRITAIN, FRANCE
_All rights reserved_
SEVENTEENTH EDITION
DEDICATION
THE WRITING OF THIS BOOK HAVING BEEN TO ME WHOLLY
A LABOR OF LOVE,
I DEDICATE IT IN A LIKE SPIRIT TO MY
WIFE AND CHILDREN
M. M. KIRKMAN
LARCHMERE, JULY 10, 1900
*CONTENTS*
CHAPTER
I. A Sweet Lady
II. Gilbert Holmes's Account Of Himself
III. The Wreck
IV. Black Hawk, the Sac King
V. The Swath of the Hurricane
VI. Love's Ideals
VII. Gilbert's Flight
VIII. Gilbert's Encounter with the Timber-Wolf
IX. Driftwood from the Thames Battlefield
X. An Awakening
XI. The New Country
XII. The Unknown Passenger
XIII. The Place of Refuge
XIV. The Highwayman
XV. Constable Blott
XVI. Before the Little Justice
XVII. The Singletons
XVIII. The Shadows of Life
XIX. The Duel
XX. Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis--the Parting of the Ways
XXI. What the Canteens Held
XXII. Rolland Love
XXIII. Cousin Angeline
XXIV. The Fishers
XXV. The Conspirators
XXVI. Lost in the Forest
XXVII. In the Tiger's Mouth
XXVIII. Gilbert and the Highwayman Join Forces
XXIX. The Tragedy of Murderer's Hollow
XXX. The Ride for Life
XXXI. Constance
XXXII. Convalescence
XXXIII. The Red Rose of Cuvier River
XXXIV. Glimpse of a Summer Sea
XXXV. Conspiracy in Black Hawk's Cabin
XXXVI. Phantoms of the Woods
XXXVII. The Prodigal
XXXVIII. The Dragon's Master
XXXIX. The Depths
XL. Job Throckmorton's Trial: The Tragedy
XLI. The Reunion
XLII. An Adventure
XLIII. On Board the War Eagle
XLIV. The Steamboat Race
XLV. Telling the News
XLVI. The Americans
XLVII. Making the Most of Things
XLVIII. The Carriers
XLIX. The Betrothal
L. Under the Widespreading Hawthorns
LI. The Mauvaise Terre
LII. Life and Death
LIII. Where All the Roads Meet
*CHAPTER I*
*A SWEET LADY*
The crowding and haste of other days no longer stirred the great wharf
at New Orleans, and steamboats did not now as then struggle for place or
preferment, but lay apart, a melancholy picture of the changing fortunes
of carriers and the fluctuations of our country's commerce. On the wide
expanse, once piled high with goods, only scattered packages lay, and
these hid away under grimy coverings, like corpses awaiting burial.
About the boat I sought, the tumult of the shipping ebbed and flowed,
and to one side the great city lay as if deserted, or asleep under the
hot afternoon sun. Close by, and near the river's edge, a procession of
convicts came on, winding in and out amid sacks of coffee and bales of
cotton, sad and noiseless, as specters might have marched. On either
side armed men, alert and watchful, kept pace, a part of the melancholy
show. Stripes encompassed the bodies of the convicts, as serpents might
loosely coil themselves; but about the guards the stripes ran up and
down--to the looker-on there was no other difference. Back of this
procession of doomed men and as if threatening it, a herd of mules, half
wild and frantic with fear, dashed here and there seeking a way out.
About them, and in guardianship, a burly negro, black as night, rode
hither and thither, headlong, wheeling and circling, like a Numidian of
old, stopping the rush here and cutting it off there--not hurriedly, but
at the last moment, as if craving excitement and the admiration his
horsemanship elicited. When it seemed to those who looked as if he had
lost control over the half-crazed brutes, his fierce cry and the crack
of his great whip stayed the frightened animals, and, wheeling, the
headlong race began afresh. On board the vessel, room and clean beds
awaited these creatures; but for the marching convicts, fortunate he who
found a bale or box upon which to lay his sorrowing head. Afterward,
amid the swamps of Louisiana, the animals will live, sleek and fat; but
the men of sin, less fortunate, will find graves in the shadows of the
moss-grown oaks, or, returning, a place in some noisy alms-house, there
to eke out their lives with shrunken frames and despairing hearts!
This, however, in passing, and not in any way to judge the acts of men,
but that I may pick up the beginning of my story, which in no wise
concerns itself with such serious things, but is a tale of love and life
in the new country, and nothing more.
From the quarter-deck passengers watched the busy scene, and among them
one face gentler and fairer than the others. I, glancing up, thought it
the most beautiful I had ever beheld, but looking, saw it only for a
moment, and this as the convicts marching past were swallowed in the
body of the great vessel. An angel grieving over the lost and
despairing in life could not, I thought, have looked down on the world
with more compassionate pity.
Of delay in loading there was none, or if some lull occurred, the
negroes, losing all care, threw down their burdens, and flinging
themselves on their knees, fell to playing "craps" as children play at
marbles; this vehemently and with noisy contention, snapping their
fingers as the dice flew from their trembling hands, each as he threw
crying some inarticulate word of menace or entreaty to the goddess of
good luck. Finally, when it was an hour past the time of leaving, and
the wharf was deserted save by groups of waiting negroes, the bell rang
its note of warning, and I, hastening on board, glanced upward, and
doing so, saw again the face of the beautiful lady, but now less
sorrowing than at first.
Backing into the stream amidst the ringing of bells and the splash of
the great wheel, we passed the white city with ever-increasing speed as
the sun, far to the west, tipped the buildings and shipping with a
golden hue. Later, and as the night closed in cool and starlit, those
who watched could yet see some glimpse of the city's lights far down on
the edge of the horizon; but with this passing, no place save the trio
of hill-clad cities on the western shore of the Great River met our view
until we reached the landing-place at Memphis.
At the time of which I write spring floods filled the deep basin of the
Mississippi to overflowing, so that the mighty stream, ever dark and
sinister in its lower stretches, was never more cruel or repellent. Its
built-up banks, tipped with foam and fast crumbling from the overflow,
offered at many points such slight resistance to the conflicting
currents as they swept back and forth in the windings of the river that
a breath only seemed needed to sweep them away. As if to add some
stress of tragedy to the scene, armed men patrolled the western shore,
warning us away with angry cries when we sought to land, lest the wash
of the boat should overcome the weakened dikes, and so engulf the
villages and wide plantations that lay behind.
At many points the waste of water spread unchecked as far as the eye
could penetrate the tangled forest, and at other places, eating into the
yielding banks, turbulent bays were formed, in which vast whirlpools
circled. Into these, trees toppled and fell as the banks gave way, to
be sucked down into the murky water, so that we could get no glimpse of
them afterward as we watched from the boat's side. In all this, how
strange a contrast! For in the far north golden sands form the bed and
rocky shores the borders of the mighty stream. From whatever point one
surveys the great river, however, whether north or south or midway in
its course, its aspect invites reflection and romantic thoughts, for
throughout its length it is ever babbling and full of mystery and
change, having a story to tell, had it the time; but evasive, as if in
play, it hurries on with ripple of expectancy, beneath the shadows of
overhanging trees and amid projecting roots and grasses, glowing with
reflected light, to its final ending in the great gulf.
How like, one sees, is it to the lives of men and their affairs.
Springing up in obscurity amid limpid springs in tranquil depths, far
off, feeble and uncertain of course, it gains strength, like childhood,
pushing on through opening vistas and enlivening prospects to its full
estate. Thence, faster and faster, to where the waters grow dark and
yellow and uncertain of temper, but still onward to the end, where, amid
somber shadows and pendent reeds, in the ooze of the slimy earth, its
waters are lost in the wide expanse, as men are swallowed up in
eternity. Of its tragedies of men and women that have come and gone
leaving no trace, who shall tell! Of that race, too, which on its silent
shores in ages long gone by came into life, was nurtured, lived, grew
old, and was lost, as if it had not been, we know nothing, nor ever
will. Nor of that later people, whose warriors for uncounted centuries
disturbed the solitude with their fierce cries or quenched their
death-rattle in the depths of its silent waters. Here, amidst bordering
forests and far-reaching plains, they passed their savage life as Nature
formed them, chanting amid circling bays and quiet dells their plaintive
love-songs, or listening to the requiem of the rustling leaves and
murmuring waters when death at last confronted them. They, too, have
gone, following as in a procession of stricken men, leaving no trace as
we come on, doomed as they were. For as others have gone, we shall go,
and in the end as in the beginning, the valleys of the great river will
echo no sound save the ripple of its waters and the moan of the wind in
the trees as in primeval days.
Along our course the great river plowed its unobstructed way through
rich alluvial lands, bordered with forests and far-reaching plantations.
On the edges of these last, hamlets clustered, and about them children
played, while men and women watched the angry waters with bated breath.
At spots far apart, landing-places were marked by lonesome cabins, and
here, in the water-soaked bank, our boat poked its nose, and was held as
in a vise by the soft receptive clay. At other places, warned away, we
anchored at a distance, transferring our load to smaller crafts, or
passed on to await a more favorable hour. Of danger there was none, or
if at night the timid held their breath when the sharp sound of the bell
caused the great wheel to stop as if stricken with death, they breathed
more freely when the obstruction, crashing against the bottom of the
boat, passed on and we were safe. Or if at times the tumbling waters
and swift converging currents threatened us, the watchful pilots steered
us clear, and we saw the danger from afar, and so paid little heed.
Thus waiting, some read or slept or played, while others watched the
sea-gulls as they flew back and forth across the foam of the flying
wheel, searching for particles of food as sharks are said to do at sea.
Not meeting with accident of any kind, the more companionable among the
passengers soon set themselves to form the acquaintance of those about
them, and in this way, and happily, I was brought in contact with
Gilbert Holmes. More fortunate still, I thought, he proved to be the
companion of the beautiful lady I had seen looking down in pity on the
marching convicts as I came on board. Strangely enough--but not
strangely either, for such things are often noticed--he resembled her as
men may resemble women. Not much alike, but as they will, without
knowing it, take on some part of the features or gentle sweetness of
these dear companions of their lives. Mr. Holmes was reaching on to old
age, but youthful in face and erect of form and buoyant as if still in
the vigor of manhood. Running through his slow speech and mirrored in
the mild complaisance of his eyes there were ever present the melodies
of the past, the remembrance of what had been. This as we often see in
men of affairs who have mixed much in the world's strife, but are no
longer concerned in its turmoil or ambitious ends. In his look and
speech there was, however, still a pleasant note of interest, as if life
had not tired him, nor his concern in its affairs been dulled by usage
or infirmity of temper; but while he listened to what was said or took
note of what went on about him, it was plain to every one that he lived
only in the presence and reflection of his loving wife. She, on her
part, it was also clear, had little thought of anything but her husband,
her eyes following him with tender concern, as if in him all her life's
interests were centered.
The great affection these two bore each other was soon discerned by
every one, and at once elicited that kind and inquisitive interest which
men and women are said ever to feel for those who truly love. Of her
age I could form no idea, for life had left no trace of care on her
beautiful face, and her eyes still showed in their placid depths the
luster of youth and the tranquil calm of a loving and trustful heart.
Her mouth, soft in outline and of engaging sweetness, ever led me to
speculate anew as to which is the more attractive, the eyes or the mouth
of women; but this, I know, others have puzzled over before me, and will
to the end of time. Her soft speech and gentle manners quickly made
every one her slave, the officers of the boat not less than others; and
though harassed by the cares and perplexities of the journey, they lost
no excuse or opportunity to come within the radiance of her gentle
presence. This tribute of admiration that men ever pay, and with
delight, to queenly women, one and all yielded, and gladly, to this
sweet-faced lady.
Thus the days passed, and they were to me a new experience of life and
its possibilities. A vision of love, burning on undimmed through years
of health and sweet contentment to the very end. Happy association!
Tranquil picture of life! It fades not from me now, but grows with each
recurring day, so that I conjure it up anew and with greater interest
than before when, in the turmoil of affairs, my mind finds need of rest
or some sweet solace of comfort.
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes received me kindly from the very first, and this, it
appeared, because of a resemblance they saw in me to a son lost to them
long before at Lookout Mountain in the great Civil War. This
resemblance and a certain reverent homage I paid them, which I did not
seek to hide, caused them to take me trustfully and wholly within the
influence of their lives; and this to my great happiness and good
fortune then and now.
Mr. Holmes, or Gilbert, as she called him when not using some term of
endearment, which she generally did, had passed his life in the West, as
the country about the Mississippi Valley was called in his youth. He
was fond of telling of the settlement of this new country and the people
who had been connected with its early history, and in this was led on by
his sweet wife. Into these accounts were interwoven glimpses of his own
life, so that I was led to ask him more about himself, and particularly
his early adventures, which his wife was most fond of having him recall.
This I did at first, I will confess, not so much out of any great
interest as that I might find excuse for being the more in his presence
and that of his dear lady. After a day thus passed, I wrote out at
night what he had recounted. Not at the beginning with any purpose, but
because I ever had a peculiar knack in this direction, being designed, I
think, from the first to be a clerk or something of that kind, and
nothing more. However, lest I should transgress some law of good
manners, I after a while informed Mr. Holmes of what I was doing. This,
I saw, did not meet his entire approval, though he gave no expression to
his thoughts save a look of surprise; but Mrs. Holmes, upon hearing it,
was greatly pleased, and thereafter lost no opportunity to aid me in my
efforts to draw from him the particulars of his early life. In this,
however, we were never wholly successful, because of his reluctance to
speak of himself; but as she seemed to know every incident of his career
and to treasure it as a sweet memory, when he halted or sought to break
the story, she would put her hand on his, and taking up the narrative go
on, perhaps, until we parted for the night. These interruptions were
greatly to his liking, it was clear, for he loved above all things to
listen to her voice; and I continually detected him at such times
looking at her with eyes half of remonstrance at what she told, but
altogether full of affection for her and her engaging ways. By this the
reader will see--and I am glad to make it plain to him--that while the
life of Gilbert Holmes seems to be related by himself, it was in many
parts--and the most interesting parts, I think--told by his wife as she
sat by his side with her hand clasping his. Cherished memory! Sweet
tale of love and adventure sweetly told! Surely I shall never know
anything so beautiful again.
Our journey too quickly over, cut short the account of Mr. Holmes's
life, and this to my sorrow, and so I said.
"You have heard but a part, and that not the most entertaining, you
would think, could you hear all," Mrs. Holmes answered; "for among other
things he has been a soldier in two of his country's wars, and in the
last a general," she added, with a fond look at her husband.
"I am sure his life must have been full to the brim," I answered.
"Yes, and well you may be; but it is his early life that interests me
most, and the part he loves best to recall. Nor of this have you heard
the half--the dear, soft-hearted, modest man!" she answered, taking his
face in both her hands and kissing him as women will those they greatly
love.
Afterward, when I had written out the story and came to ask Mr. Holmes's
permission to put it in print, I should by no means have succeeded
except for the intercession of his sweet wife, who rightly believed the
world could never know too much of so good and honest a gentleman.
"Surely, Gilbert, there is nothing in it you would not have told, and it
will please me more than I can tell if you will let him have his way in
this," the dear lady remonstrated; and he, saying nothing, assented, as
he did to everything she proposed.
I have had much inclination to prolong the story, but this I have
restrained, lest it prove tiresome; though how that could be I cannot
see. In the telling I shall follow on with the reader, but more slowly,
it being to me worthy of greater regard than he can give it; and this
because in every word I shall detect a presence or hear again voices
that will be dear to me forever. This pleasure the reader cannot share,
nor see as I shall the loving couple, first one and then the other, take
up the story on this page and on that as, in the telling, some halt or
embarrassment of speech clogs the other's utterance.
[Illustration: Chapter I tailpiece]
*CHAPTER II*
*GILBERT HOLMES'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF*
I was born on the borders of a rolling prairie in the great state of
Illinois, near the spot where the Big and Little Sandy mingle their
shallow waters to form the wandering Mauvaise Terre. This last,
hesitating long as to the course it would pursue, or indeed whether it
would move at all or not, finally making up its mind, takes its way to
the west, there at last to be swallowed up in the turbid waters of the
Illinois. This in 1826, when the state was just born and men lived far
apart, and wolves uttered their doleful cries beyond the sheepfold and
in the edges of the great forests at night and in the gray of the early
morning. Of the county in which I was born, I am not sure, because of
the uncertainty as to the boundary-lines in the early days, but this is
not a matter of any account, as it in no wise concerns the subject of my
story.
My mother, for family reasons, wished I should be called Job, but
dissuaded, though why I do not know, she named me Gilbert, after a
gentleman of amiable disposition she had once known. This, she said,
because she traced in me a resemblance to him in this important
particular.
"Did you ever see milder eyes or softer ways?" she would say aside to
visitors, with an air of motherly pride, when I was scarce able to walk.
When she was gone, those who treasured her memory said I resembled her;
but it was only a faint reflection of her presence, such as we often see
in children, for of all women she was the most beautiful in the world
save one.
As a child I was shy, and because of it, disposed to be much alone; and
to this day I love above everything else to mount my horse, and leaving
the streets and public highways, seek out the nooks and restful corners
of the cool and silent country. This love of being alone--if one can
ever be said to be alone in the country--has not in any way lessened my
liking for my fellow-men nor my delight in their company, but has served
rather as a gentle antidote to the cares and vexations of an otherwise
busy life. As a youth I was rosy-cheeked and inclined to be dull; but
this is said ever to be the case with children having a fine color. Why
this should be so, if it is indeed true, I leave to those versed in such
things, for I can see no reason for it whatever. I loved to play, but
not to study and because of these opposites, so conflicting and
inopportune, I ever found it hard to keep up with my class in school.
Reading I liked, but not arithmetic, while grammar made my head ache,
and in spelling I tripped on the simplest words. It often fell out,
therefore, that when the other children piled their books on the rude
benches in the cool of the afternoon, and went their way with shouts and
laughter I settled down to try again. At such times the teacher would
sit back in her chair on the little platform and scowl clown on me in
gloomy discontent, tapping the desk to relieve her angry feelings.
"You little beast!" she would sometimes say when thus cheated of her
afternoon outing, "you are not half so stupid as you seem, though you
are dull enough, goodness knows. You could learn if you wanted to, but
you would rather watch the girls or look out of the windows than
study--the more shame to you."
This was true enough as regards the girls, I know, but I hated her for
all that; only I hated myself still more. As I grew in years my
dullness so preyed upon me that in all my reflections on the great and
desirable things in life. Smartness always stood foremost and the best
of all. My affliction made me still more shy, until in time what was at
first only a trait, became a habit, and one that I have never been able
to quite throw off, though the vicissitudes of life and much intercourse
with men have somewhat lessened its embarrassments. While on this
subject I may say, going to the other extreme, that neither my dear wife
nor my children will ever admit that I could have been dull in my youth,
and at this I smile and even make believe; but they know little of human
nature, and their skepticism only proves their love. For their
disbelief grows out of the knowledge that in middle life I was able to
take up whatever interested me and carry it forward to a more or less
successful conclusion. This facility, however, came too late to enliven
my childhood, and did not arise so much from any talent I possessed as
from experience and reflection--things that come to all of us with
mature years.
My amiability in youth, coupled with my lack of smartness, caused me to
be much set upon by boys more precocious than I, and, in consequence,
the quiet of my life was often rudely disturbed. For it is only truth
to say that while my eyes may have been mild and my manner soft, I
really had a very high temper if much stress was put upon it. Then,
going to the other extreme, no situation of peril could prevent its
blazing forth. At such times my rage, rising higher and higher, like a
prairie fire, grew with what it fed upon, only to die away finally of
shame or for want of something to keep it alive. These outbreaks
occasioned me much self-abasement, and I would often cry out in agony at
the excess of my passions, but without much if any good coming from it
that I could see. Such temper was unknown to my early youth, or maybe it
only lay dormant. For afterward, when fortune threw me, a stripling,
into the world, I was so crowded and jostled about, as the unprotected
are apt to be in such cases--and generally to their good--that from
being mild and gentle, I became as fierce and intractable as a wild
beast. However, I now look back upon this period with a sense of
thankfulness that I did not become so wedded to its excesses as not to
be conscious in the end that I could not thus get on in the world, but
that sooner or later I should have it arrayed solidly against me. With
the aid of such reflections and other help, and the fact that I was
inclined to be affectionate if circumstances favored, I was in time able
to resume some part of my old cheerfulness of manner. This, however, I
believe, that to those who were kind to me, and in every case to those
who were weak, I was never aught but gentle. For certainly, to the
unfortunate my heart has ever gone out in sympathy; but how much of this
feeling has been due in later years to the trials of my youth and how
much to natural love of my kind, I cannot tell.
When young my health was a source of anxiety to my mother, and after I
lost her, to those who interested themselves in my affairs, but without
any great reason, I have always thought. As a young man my complexion
was fair and my height not above the medium, but because of my active
life I appeared somewhat taller than I really was. In face, my nose was
aquiline, and much too delicate to buffet the world successfully, it was
said by those wise in such matters. Of my mouth, it was full, and my
chin inclined to be pointed rather than heavy. This last, the village
phrenologist said, denoted a subtle disposition; but in this I think he
was mistaken, though I may say that I ever possessed that peculiar sense
which leads animals and some men to the adoption of measures necessary
to their preservation, and this without their being conscious of its
exercise. This trait is, however, an instinct, and not one of
calculation. In great men and in large affairs something akin to it,
but of a higher order, is called Apprehension. Thus the great foresee
what is to happen, and doing so, turn it to their advantage.
My mother said my mouth indicated a love of artistic things, and in this
she was clearly right so far as her own sex was concerned. For I have
always held women in such high esteem that the least among them have
ever commanded my love and respect. As a lad there was not a blithe,
sweet-eyed girl who pored over her lessons in the log schoolhouse by the
forest stream, about which my early recollections cluster, whom I did
not look upon as a divinity. This feeling of love and respect for the
dainty companions of my youth has ever been my conception of women, and
now, when no longer young, I look upon them as angels sent to eke out
our life after it has been robbed of the delusions of youth. This
feeling men share in common, and it is due to contrast, and more
particularly to woman's superior delicacy of mind and heart, and also to
something else, I cannot tell what. For she is and ever will be an
unfathomable mystery to us, try as we may to understand her.
This account of myself I have striven to make as favorable as I can, and
if it is partial, you will attribute it to pride, and not to vanity.
For while all men may be proud, no one should be vain, and the first for
the reason that it is not altogether conscience or the love of right
that keeps men from wrong. Pride is a great factor in such matters, and
so far as that is true this brittle cactus, so unjustly reviled by the
thoughtless, should be fertilized according to our needs.
Like all men born to live in the country, I have ever had the habit of
trusting fair-spoken men. This has resulted to my disadvantage many
times, but on the whole I have not been the loser by it. For the goose
is bound to be plucked, and is none the worse for it in the end, while
the feathers the rogue scatters along his path serve in some measure to
indicate his whereabouts afterward to the trusting and simple-minded.
In my youth I was disregardful of money, and thus early acquired credit
for generosity that did not belong to me. Because of this I have always
believed that merit in giving ought to attach only to those who do so
with groans and contractions of the heartstrings. For such to give is
real generosity, and in this regard it is a subject of gratitude to me,
as it must be to all improvident men, that with the lapse of years and
the coming on of old age, no untoward circumstance of poverty has caused
me to regret any foolish thing I may have done in disregard of matters
relating to money; and about the possession of this last there exists
much misunderstanding, I have always thought. For I must say, that for
the life of me I have never been able to discover that money is more
prized among the trading-people with whom my life has been thrown than
among the better bred of other communities. In whomsoever wealth
dwells, to that person the social peacock and the common barnyard fowl
alike droop their crests in respectful and distant salutation. Love of
property is innate in man, and to that love we may trace most of the
blessings we have above those of common savages. About this, however,
men differ; but all agree that those who have little defer of their own
accord to those who have more, and that so long as men have vigor and
the hope of life their greed of property never ceases to grow. In my
own case, lack of skill in getting and holding has been said by those
who professed to understand such matters to be clearly indicated by my
temperament. This prediction may have been true, though it has always
been a conviction with me that if I had devoted myself to making money
with proper spirit I might have been fairly successful. In this,
however, I may be vain without reason, but in order to acquire and keep,
one's thoughts, it is clear, must dwell much upon such subjects. Out of
this concentration comes the gift of acquiring and holding, the genius
of the money-getter. Such occupation of one's life many esteem
uneventful and void of interest, but I am assured that it is more
intense than the habit of gambling or the love of women; indeed, a
passion so great that it eats up all others, and in its intensity is
worthy to rank with the fanaticism of martyrs, the ambition of soldiers,
the fierce egotism of artists, or the dry nervous disorder of writers.
*CHAPTER III*
*THE WRECK*
My father was a most kind and lovable man, and while he owned and
cultivated a farm, he was a trader, and nothing else. The farm was a
dream of my mother's, a vision of her girlhood, never fulfilled. He
bought and sold cattle, and it was said could tell the weight of an ox
by merely looking at it, so that his judgment in such matters was
accepted everywhere without question by buyer and seller alike. One
year, I remember, because of a great murrain breaking out among the
cattle in the West, he turned his attention to swine, buying all there
were in the country, and this to the great discomfiture of other
dealers, who would not pay the price he offered. Afterward he drove
them to market, where they were sold at a considerable advance, to the
great benefit of all concerned. This venture was much thought of by
those who profited by the enterprise, and added to the high esteem in
which he was already held by the community generally. He did not,
however, pursue the matter further, but returned the next year to his
former occupation, to the great regret of his late patrons and the no
less great satisfaction of those who made a business of buying and
selling hogs. Winter and summer, in sunshine and storm, he traversed
the country far and near, buying and selling cattle. On occasion,
however, if opportunity offered, he traded in other things; but such
dealings were aside and in the nature of perquisites, which he lavished
on my mother or gave to the poor, of whom there were great numbers in
the new country. When, from time to time; he had exhausted his money
and credit and the market was right, he was in the habit of collecting
his herds at some central place and driving them across the country,
usually to St. Louis, that city being then as now a market of importance
and noted, as it is to-day, for the enterprise and high character of its
merchants.
The life my father led was one of hardship and constant danger, the
newness of the country and the lawlessness that prevailed making travel
dangerous and life insecure. Such things, however, did not deter him;
and by repeating his venture many times successfully, it came about at
last that he was thought to be among the richest men in the country.
This glimpse of fortune, so alluring, proved not to be lasting, and
later appeared to have visited us merely that the reverse of the picture
might be the more forbidding. Esteemed a harbinger of greater things in
store, it vanished in a moment to return no more.
In the autumn that I reached my tenth year my father's purchases were
greater than ever before, embracing all his own resources and those of
his neighbors and friends. For these last ever pressed upon him in this
way, that they might share in his good fortune--and willingly enough
upon his part, for he was in all things a most considerate and generous
man. At last, collecting all his herds, he drove them by easy stages
across the country to St. Louis, where he found a market favorable for
their sale, as he had thought. This venture consummated the access of
fortune he looked forward to, and assured him thereafter ease and
quietude of life and the lasting comfort of those who were dear to him.
The goal so many seek, and oftentimes fruitlessly, he had thus early in
life fairly and honorably attained. Closing up his affairs with all
haste, he collected the proceeds of his venture, and with his little
army of retainers set out on his return home. My mother, as had often
been the case before, was one of the party, and this that she might be
with her husband, his prolonged absences from home being the one source
of unhappiness in her married life. For they were in all things lovers,
as at first; and starting out on our homeward journey no premonition of
coming misfortune disturbed their happiness or clouded the bright hopes
they had of the future.
Pursuing our way leisurely northward--for through my mother's indulgent
love I had been permitted to accompany her--we came, after a wide detour
which my father's affairs caused him to make, to the ferry where we were
to cross the Great River into Illinois. This spot was one not easily
forgotten, its beauty and solitude being such as to awaken to the full
one's love of the romantic and picturesque in country life. On the
western shore a fringe of graceful trees hung far over the margin of the
river, and on the other side wild flowers and verdant grasses covered
the valley that sloped back to the hills upon which a forest loomed.
Nature, ever dainty in her handicraft, had encompassed the picture, as
she never fails to do, with a graceful and appropriate setting. Some
distance below the crossing, and as if to add piquancy to the scene, we
could plainly discern the foam of the great rapids that there
interrupted the flow of the river, but far away, and purposely, to avoid
the danger of travelers being drawn into its turbulent waters. In other
respects my father thought the ferry unwisely placed, because of the
contracted channel and swift-running current. No accident, however, had
ever occurred; and while the water was high at the time of which I
speak, the prospect as we stood waiting on the shore was thought to be
exhilarating rather than dangerous.
Looking forward to the passage as a pleasant diversion, the party rode
onto the boat, commenting with cheerful gayety on the river and the wide
expanse of the other shore, with its background of trees and projecting
clouds. These last added greatly to the beauty and grandeur of the
scene, and that they foretold danger in any way we did not dream. Such
delusions, however, ever form a part of the destiny of men. The things
that menace us we willfully disregard in the soft pleasure of idle talk,
or lose sight of in the desultory fancies of the moment.
When the boat upon which we were embarked had left the shore, it was
discovered, all too late, that the man in charge was far gone in drink
and altogether stupid, so as not to be able to perform his duties except
in a merely mechanical way. However, to turn about was impossible, the
cumbrous craft being scarcely able to go forward in the turbulent
current. Moreover, the difficulties of the situation appeared not to be
great, and the necessity of skill on the part of the attendant a matter
of little or no account; and so it would have been in most cases, but
not now, as it appeared afterward.
Our craft was quaint of build in the extreme, and one not to be
forgotten. In length it was some forty feet and in width perhaps a
third as much. On either side a wheel projected beyond the boat, and on
the inner axle a house perched in which a horse was hidden. From a
distance the little craft resembled a crippled waterfowl, which, with
half-closed wings, sought to rise above the stream, but at best was only
able to agitate the waters in its struggle to get on. Our progress was
slow and at times doubtful, the lurching of the boat oftentimes lifting
the wheels clear of the water. Of this, however, we thought little, as
it was in no wise attended with danger of any kind. Such was the
prospect at the moment, and in the long years that have since intervened
no detail of the little group as it stood huddled together looking out
on the dark river has faded from my memory, or ever will.
As we neared the middle of the stream, the storm which had shown above
the hills, and which we had so little regarded, burst upon us with the
force of a tornado. At once all was confusion and uproar, the
affrighted animals rushing hither and thither, tipping the boat this way
and that as if it were a mere eggshell. Still we might have come safely
to land, had not the boatman, bewildered by the uproar, lost even the
semblance of habit, and failing to keep the bow resolutely to the wind,
allowed it to drift hopelessly to one side. At this, and with scarcely
an interval in which to cry "God help us!" the wind and waves, acting
together, lifted the little craft high in the air, and holding it aloft
for a moment as if in mockery, turned it bottom side up.
Before this, and as the storm arose, my father and mother stood at the
bow of the boat, and happily for me I had not dismounted, but pushing to
a place beside them, awaited, childlike, the coming shore. When the
hurricane struck us I remember to have laughed, for storms have ever had
an attraction for me, and to this day nothing gives me greater pleasure
than to listen to the wind as it sweeps through the trees or spends its
strength on whatever object impedes its course. I had no thought of
danger, else why this great boat which seemed capable of withstanding
any strain? My mother's fears and my father's anxious face, however,
quickly conveyed to me some sense of the peril that threatened us.
Nevertheless, the music of the tempest and the fitful gusts of rain and
spray that beat in my face would have drowned all thought of danger, had
not my mother's shrill cry, rising above the roar of the storm and
calling my name, have startled me out of myself; and now, although half
a century has come and gone, I see her, as then, standing by my father's
side, holding her habit with one hand and clinging to him with the
other, her paleface directed toward mine in an agony of supplication and
fear. As I looked, her lips moved in prayer, as if in this way she
would avert the danger that threatened those she loved. The sight
brought me to my senses, and rising in my saddle, I waved my hand, and
with a look sought to allay or lessen her fears. At this her face
relaxed and tears darkened her eyes, as if some part of her prayer was
already answered. Oh, blessed, fitful vision of a being and form
divine! a glance only, but everyway sufficient for life's brief span!
As the storm increased in violence, the wind and waves tossed our boat
here and there as if it were but a feather's weight. At last, when it
was plain that the vessel was about to take its final plunge, I saw my
father grasp my mother's hand and drag her to the edge of the boat,
crying: "Quick, Margaret, for your life!" Calling to me to cling to my
horse and give him free rein, he lifted the great whip he carried and
gave the animal a mighty stroke across the back. At this the horse,
startled out of himself, sprang forward, clearing the vessel's side at a
bound, and thus in a second I found myself submerged in the angry
waters. Coming to the surface, I saw my father a few feet away,
supporting my mother, and now, strange sight! she seemed to have no fear
whatever--at least her face gave no sign of it; but this was not out of
the ordinary, for she was always trusting and womanlike, believing that
in his company no harm could come to her. So that now, when the fierce
waters swept over her, she clung about his neck with the same
confidence, I must believe, that she had felt when he led her to the
altar. For a moment we stayed together, but not longer; and as my pony
straightened out in the struggle to reach the shore, I called back:
"I'm all right, pap; hold onto mother, and I'll soon bring you help!"
Oh, hopeful, evanescent spirit of youth! To you naught is impossible or
beyond God's power to help. Of our companions who struggled with
despairing cries in vain effort to free themselves from the dreadful
wreck, what shall I say except to pray God that I may be spared from
ever seeing or hearing anything so pitiful again.
*CHAPTER IV*
*BLACK HAWK, THE SAC KING*
Submerged in the icy stream, the waves and fierce current impeded our
progress toward the shore, and soon, the effort being too great for my
pony's strength, he showed signs of exhaustion, rising each time with
greater difficulty from the water as the waves rolled high above our
heads. Observing this, I slipped from his back and caught the stirrup
with one hand, swimming with the other; but now my weight being on one
side, threw him off his balance, so that he more than once came nigh to
being overturned. In this extremity I knew not what to do; but when
hope was fast giving way to despair, I bethought me how my father had
once saved his life in a like case, and so releasing the stirrup I
caught hold of the pony's tail. At this, freed from the unequal burden,
he shot forward with new life, seeming no longer to regard my weight in
the least. In this way we at last approached the shore, where soon my
horse's feet, and then my own, touched the bottom, and we were saved.
Climbing the bank, my joy was shared by my sturdy companion, for as we
emerged from the water he straightened out his nose and whinnied again
and again, as if in triumph. Patting him on the neck, I rested, looking
back across the angry waters; but nothing met my gaze save the
high-rolling waves tipped with foam and flying spray. Unable to make
headway, my father and mother had drifted with the current, and this
toward the dreadful rapids, now scarce a mile away. At the thought I
sprang into the saddle, calling in a frenzy of fear: "Father! father!
mother! mother!" but foolishly, for no sound answered my cry save the
splash of the water and the whir of the tempest as it swept across the
darkened river. Trembling with fright, I put spur to my horse, hoping
to intercept their progress ere it was too late, but how I could not
tell. In this way I went on until I could plainly hear the roar of the
rapids, but of means of rescue I could discern none whatever. This
until as I skirted a little bay I was gladdened by the sight of a boat
drawn up on the shore and half hidden by the overhanging shrubbery.
Seeing it, I gave a shout, and looking about, saw in the edge of the
forest, which here grew nearly to the water's edge, a rude hut of logs.
Jumping from my horse, I ran toward it, and without waiting to make
summons of any kind, burst in the door, which was but loosely held with
a wooden latch. At first I could see no one, but scanning the interior,
all its parts became fixed in my brain as if it were for that and
nothing else that I had come. At the farther extremity of the room, on
a rude hearth, a dull fire burned, and above it a kettle of water
simmered. From the rafters festoons of corn hung, and near by
vegetables and pieces of venison and smoked fish. On the wall a bunch of
arrows, loosely tied, was held by a wooden peg, and beside it an Indian
bow. Below this a rifle rested. Of furniture there was none, pallets
of bear and panther skins serving alike for seats and beds. On the
floor a gourd filled with water supplied the place of pail and cup, and
in the corner a rude box answered for a cupboard. At my feet a floor
hard as flint glistened in the dim light like polished oak; and this was
all. No detail of the dark inclosure escaped me, yet while thus seeing
without consciousness, my eyes sought the help I came for, and this
fortunately, for in the twilight of the room and in lonely abandonment
an Indian woman sat. Her bent form and worn and wrinkled face told of a
life of sorrow and hardship, and my first thought was one of
discouragement; but giving it no heed, I ran to where she sat, and
grasping her hand, cried, at the top of my voice:
"Help! help me to save my father and mother who are drowning in the
river, and quick, before it's too late!"
At this she looked up as if not fully understanding, but upon repeating
my appeal, she rose to her feet, saying slowly, as if not accustomed to
the tongue, but plainly as one could wish:
"What has happened to the white-faced child?"
"The ferryboat's upset, and they're in the river; but we can reach them
before it's too late, if you'll come with me, and quick," I answered,
grasping her hand.
"The white child's mother's in the water?" she answered, interrogating
me and pointing toward the river.
"Yes, my father and mother; and quick, please, or it'll be too late," I
answered, in a frenzy of haste. Comprehending at last, she answered,
and now with animation and a wish to aid me:
"Yes, yes, my child; I'll come, I'll come."
Saying which, she started forward, but as she did so the room darkened,
and looking up I saw an Indian chief standing in the open door. His
face and rugged features, bronzed by the sun, bore traces of paint, and
surmounting his head, which seemed higher and greater than that of other
men, there waved a plume of crimson encircled about with feathers of the
sparrow-hawk. When he smiled with gentle tenderness on my companion I
was filled with new hope; but a moment after, looking in my direction,
his face darkened, as if he saw in me one of a race he hated, and so was
dumb. Trembling, I could not speak; and looking toward him spellbound,
his form, before commanding, seemed to tower higher and higher, while
his eyes glowed in his dark face as if emitting flames of fire. Looking
up, the woman spoke to him in the Indian tongue, smiling as she did so;
but to all she said he paid no heed. At last, going to where he stood,
she put her hand upon his breast and spoke to him again, and now with
entreaty, as if asking a boon, pointing first at me and then toward the
river. As she went on in this way, his features after a while relaxed,
and finally reaching out his hand as if in acquiescence, he let it rest
in gentle caress upon her upturned face. At this she smiled and drew
back, as if made happy by his touch. Crossing the room and opening a
door that led into a dark inclosure, he brought forth an oaken oar, and
looking toward me, said, as one accustomed to command, but not unkindly,
"Come." Upon this, and without speaking, I followed to the shore where
the boat lay hid. Shoving it into the stream, he motioned me to enter,
seating himself in the stern. Pointing upward as we reached the open
water, I cried:
"There, there! they must be there!"
To this he vouchsafed no reply, but dipping his oar far into the water,
the little boat shot into the bay and thence into the stream beyond.
This, while still disturbed by high-rolling waves, was no longer lashed
by the storm, the hurricane having passed as quickly as it came.
Standing up in the boat, as we went forward my eyes sought in vain for
some glimpse of those we came to help. At last, seeing nothing, fear
chilled my heart and my limbs grew cold; but as we neared the center of
the stream and were yet unable to discover any trace of those we sought,
I saw above the glistening whitecaps, far away, an object rising and
falling in the troubled waters. Filled with new hope, I pointed toward
it, crying:
"There, there they are!"