without stopping, hurried on to where Uncle Job stood waiting to put me
in the stage. Thus we went away, and turning, I saw Constance looking
down on me from the room where we had just parted, waving me a last
farewell.
*CHAPTER XI*
*THE NEW COUNTRY*
When we were clear of the village and the straggling houses that lined
the road beyond its limits, the sun was well above the horizon, lighting
with ever-lessening shadows the great prairie spread out before us.
Refreshed and enlivened by the pure air and the companionship of the
quiet country, I looked about me, curious as to the route we were
following and the far-reaching prospect on either side. On our right
the gentle Mauvaise Terre pursued its slow and devious course through
the quiet plain, marked throughout its winding way by trees and drooping
bushes. To the south, low down on the hazy landscape, the great forest
about Wild Plum, so dear of memory, showed its black depths in the soft
morning air. This far-off glimpse of my home stirred the sorrows of my
heart anew, but a turn in the road shutting out the view, I soon found
myself scanning with curious interest the placid landscape on which we
were entering.
Our great state, now so thickly peopled, had then, save here and there,
only widely scattered inhabitants. Its forests and prairies were still
undisturbed, save by the birds and wild animals that sought in their
vast solitudes the security and food they craved. Of highways there
were scarce any, and these as nature had left them, except at some
impassable place where neglect would have barred the way. The streams,
quiet and uneventful, pursued their noiseless way across the level
plains, amid flower-strewn banks, unvexed by obstructions of any kind,
save, perhaps, at points far removed on the great rivers, where
primitive ferries added to rather than lessened the solitude of the
gentle landscape.
In this way Nature's aptitude for grouping the beauties of her abundant
harvest found material with which to work her will unvexed by man. The
great prairies, looped together or apart, formed natural parks,
interspersed throughout their length and breadth with quiet lakes and
still-running streams, the whole fringed about with slumbering forests
filled to the edge with every kind of foliage that could attract the eye
or engage the mind. This grouping of forest and lawn, separate yet
forever together, blending and scintillating in the sweet air, filled
the heart of the traveler with the peace and restfulness that only the
quiet of the country can afford. Man's presence here, I thought, as I
looked forward on the road which scarred the face of the grassy plain as
if cut with a whip, can only disfigure, not help it in any way.
Such was the prospect, but of its beauty I was only partly conscious.
This is not strange, though no more so in the case of the young than of
those of mature age. For the infinite is ever beyond us, no matter when
or how presented. We can, at best, only understand the small things of
life, the make-believes of the world. The petty park, the trick of some
cunning landscape gardener, elicits our admiration and unstinted praise,
and this properly; but the wide expanses of Nature, in which beauty
blends in every line and shadow, pass by us unnoticed, or at most with
only feeble comprehension. Their symphonies are beyond us, or at best,
find only a faint echo in our hearts.
In this manner, and only half-conscious of what I saw, we pursued our
way; but in excuse I may say one must share in the quietude of Nature to
be able to drink in her beauties to the full. This I could not do--my
awakening had been too rude; nor was our vehicle one to invite comfort
or reflection. Hard usage had long since dulled its springs, and its
narrow seats suggested poverty of material rather than desire to put one
at his ease. Public need, however, it was apparent, could afford
nothing better, and so the traveler was fain to be content, and was. Of
paint or ornamentation it had none, and the horses, dulled out of all
semblance of animation, dragged us forward in sullen discontent. In
front, beside the driver, a mail-pouch lay, and in the body of the
vehicle two seats faced each other, and behind these a rack for baggage.
Above our heads a coarse canvas was upheld by rude supports, and at the
sides soiled and tattered curtains flapped uneasily in the morning air.
The vehicle, however rude, was thought to denote some attempt at
splendor, and never failed to call the more curious to the roadsides as
it went back and forth across the country.
Such were the surroundings, you must know, under which I set out that
sunny morning in May, 1838, to take my first step in the serious affairs
of life.
*CHAPTER XII*
*THE UNKNOWN PASSENGER*
For a long time we rode on in silence, Uncle Job sitting back in the
corner of the stage, busy with the sad thoughts that darkened his fine
face. Perhaps he might have spoken some word had we been alone, but
there was another passenger, in the person of a tall gentleman with
melancholy visage, who sat beside him wrapped in a great military cloak,
as the fashion was at that time. Whether he came from Little Sandy or
beyond I did not know, for we found him thus and asleep when we got into
the stage. Nor did he arouse himself till the sun was well up and the
air full of warmth and the perfume of the prairie. Then he stirred
uneasily, and finally, after a prodigious yawn that cracked his jaws and
caused his face to open up cavernous depths one would not have thought
possible in any man, he opened his eyes and looked about. Amid such
struggles, I idly speculated, man must first have awakened to life; and
pleased at the conceit, I stared at him the harder, looking point-blank
into his worn face as if some secret lay hidden there, though I knew
that only impertinence prompted my rude behavior.
Of all situations in life there is no such place in the world for
studying mankind or spying out their secrets as the old-fashioned
stagecoach. Of escape to the modest and shrinking there is none, and of
concealment not so much as a wink. Here all alike yield up their
treasures, however loth. A gimlet could not more surely penetrate the
heart than the cold, unfriendly eyes that peer into yours scarce a yard
away. Old people of discretion and some pretense of manners may put a
limit to their curiosity, but the young none whatever. Thus I sat
watching our fellow-traveler, noting the processes of his awakening, and
wondering what kind of a man he would turn out to be--merchant, or
preacher, or boor, or all in one. For youth is ever thus inquisitive,
and more often than otherwise at the expense of good manners, as in my
case; but it is upon such small things, it may be said in excuse, that
the mind is constructed and some knowledge of men and affairs finally
attained.
When the gentleman at last awoke, he after a while took notice of my
fixed attention, but not unkindly. Stroking the beard that covered his
lower face, and seeing only an inquisitive youth, he opened his eyes to
the full and smiled down on me with kind benignancy. This smile so
instantly transformed the man, brightening his face and lighting up the
depths of his eyes, that I stirred uneasily, as if by some imperceptible
movement he had taken the place of the one I had been watching: and this
was true; for when the smile died away, the other man--and it was
another man--with the worn face and inscrutable eyes straightway
reappeared. This other man, homely in looks, neither invited nor
repelled confidence, but his face had about it something I had never
seen before and shall never see again. Youthful, it had an air of
immeasurable age and sphinx-like silence and mystery, the face of a man
still young, but without mirth or hopefulness. Of its melancholy there
was no fathoming the depth or cause. Worn and seamed, shadows filled its
cavities and lingered about its shrunken surfaces, giving it an air of
weariness one never sees except in the faces of those who have suffered
much. Its expression was as of a man who looked at you from out his
grave, but not forbiddingly. Rather as if seeing nothing in the
surroundings he craved, or that could by any possibility satisfy his
longings. Such, too, was the man as I afterward came to know him, and
as all the world finally knew him. For through the cracked and shrunken
surfaces of his face a great soul looked out, but a face wherein
expectation was lost in disappointment and dreary waiting. Seen in the
shadows of the stage, its angularities and deep-sunken eyes saddened the
beholder as might the wailing of the wind on an autumn day; and this, it
was apparent, would ever form its fixed expression, no matter what
fortune might come to brighten the life of its possessor.
His hands, great like his body, lay limp before him, and in their huge
proportions bore evidence of the usage such hands are put to in a new
country when poverty leads the way. Observing them, my eyes again sought
his face to determine, if I might, what manner of man he was, but to
this scrutiny his eyes returned no answer. They were, as I have said,
as if belonging to a dead man, or one feigning to be dead, yet having in
their hidden depths a spark of life that might need only occasion to
cause them to burn with indignation or warm with love. Above the veiled
face that might hide an emperor's front or only plodding vacuity there
rose a towering head, disfigured but not hidden by the hair that clung
about it, as if filled with tears or winter's rain. Seeing, and not
seeing, I sat, absorbed and staring, yet not forgetting his greeting and
the sudden change that followed. Surely a man must be something out of
the common, I idly reasoned, to have one moment the mien of a god and
the next to shrink to nothing. Such change, I dimly saw, as it is
sometimes given the young to see, could not be natural, but had its
origin in some misery of life that led its possessor to seek rest and
opportunity in evasion, or else had changed the man from what he was at
first. Every part of this singular being corresponded to his face, so
that no loophole was left by which to come at his real presence. Thus
balked, my mind filled with romantic imaginings concerning him as he had
stood revealed by his benign salutation, and I saw--though only as a
youth might see such things and ponder them--that the face was one that
in its processes could at will still the minds of men or cause them to
follow its possessor, if profit in trade or other motive called forth
its hidden power; a face that at the fireside or in the turmoil of
politics, if its owner were that way inclined, would win and retain the
love of those about him; a face so hidden or so open in its candor that
no one would think otherwise than that its every thought stood revealed.
A noble face, and without wrong, but concealing in its depths, as I
afterward came to know, ambitions so boundless and hopes so great that
the means necessary to attain their ends in this undeveloped country
appeared so commonplace and vulgar that every instinct of the man's
aspiring soul revolted at the disgusting sacrifice. Such, truly, was the
inward nature of the then unknown man who sat silently facing me as we
went forward in the warmth of that far-off day. Not all that I have
said, indeed, came to me as I sat staring, but something akin to it,
afterward to find more mature expression as I grew to man's estate.
While thus watching and dreaming, I became conscious, in turn, of his
fixed attention. Not, indeed, as if he saw me, but as if studying some
natural object, as if wondering within himself whether the thing he
looked at was of vegetable or animal growth--a cabbage, perhaps, or a
man just sprouting. Observing his look, I dropped my eyes and turned
away, and seeing this, he relaxed his gaze, and reaching forward laid
his great hand on mine, saying:
"Well, my young friend, why do you turn away? Never did I see a look
more steadfast or prolonged."
"I hope you'll excuse me, sir," I answered, ashamed and blushing.
"There is nothing to excuse; but did my face interest you because it is
homely, or was there something else you saw there besides plainness?
Come, tell me! First, though, let us be friends"; and clasping my hands
in his, the God-like smile again lighted up his face, driving the dark
shadows before it as the summer wind drives the black clouds across a
lowering sky. "If I had a son, I should like him to be something like
you in complexion and build; so come now, tell me of what you were
thinking."
His voice--and this I noticed--seemed not to have any beginning or
ending, but fell on the morning air like a chime of bells heard afar off
through the silent woods, so sweet and soft it was. Nor could I feel
embarrassment in his presence once he had spoken, but rather as if
contact with him had in some way made me more worthy of regard. Because
of this I responded freely enough to what he said, answering:
"I was wondering, sir, how it came that you have two faces, if you will
excuse me."
At this he smiled, as if not displeased at my reply, answering:
"Have I two faces, do you think?"
"Yes, sir; or so it seemed to me."
"Well, perhaps I have; and what would you say if I told you one was my
business face and the other one I keep for my own entertainment?"
"I would think it strange, sir," I answered.
"Would it be?" he replied, pleasantly. "People, you know, who are on
the lookout for custom strive to present as smart an appearance as
possible. Most of the goods merchants keep they expect to sell, but
there are articles in every stock for which there is little or no demand
or profit in the handling. These the merchant keeps to gratify his
pride of proprietorship. Perhaps I have such a weakness, but with which
face do you think I seek preferment, my son?"
"Surely that which people like best; but why doesn't that please you,
too?" I answered, led on by his engaging manner.
"Perhaps because I must use it of necessity," he replied, reflectively,
and as if answering some serious question. "Maybe it is love of
contrast, or perhaps the natural recoil of the mind. We love the blue
sky the more because it is often overcast, and in turn the clouds and
the storm are welcome after days of sunshine; so it is with men.
Sometimes the contrasts are natural, and perhaps they are in my case;
but how happens it, my young friend," he went on in his kindly way,
"that so young and slight a lad as you should be alone and so early on
the road?"
"I beg your pardon," Uncle Job here broke in; "he is my ward, and
traveling with me, if you please. I have been so wrapped up in my
thoughts that I had quite forgotten where I was, and am much obliged to
you for recalling me to myself, and for your kind notice of my nephew."
This was a very long speech for Uncle Job to make to a stranger, but
being a man much given to regard the little politenesses of life, he saw
in the speech and kind attention of our companion his gentleness of
heart, and seeing it, was attracted to him, as men ever are toward one
another. "We are very happy, sir," he went on, "in having the pleasure
of your company on our journey, if you will permit me to say so."
"Thank you. The society of agreeable people who want nothing, the
politicians say, is a thing to prize; and as we are likely to be long on
the road, I must consider myself fortunate in your company and that of
your nephew," he answered, with grave politeness.
"Companionship is doubly agreeable traveling these lonesome stretches of
country, and my nephew and I are glad indeed of yours," Uncle Job went
on, as if to draw the other out.
"You are very kind, sir. Company is valuable in many ways," the
gentleman answered, and not altogether, I thought, as if talking to us.
"If good, we approve and pattern after it; if bad, the discomfort we
suffer strengthens our better impulses. Much solitude, however, is
necessary to man's health. It is no idle saying that 'Silence is
golden,' for it is in such intervals of rest that the mind is fertilized
and strengthened, spreading out and grasping the mysteries and common
affairs of life, just as the roots of a tree seek nourishment and added
hold in darkness and solitude. Thus only are they able to sustain the
great height and luxuriant foliage the world admires. The steer that is
watched, to use a homely illustration, never lives to carry its meat to
market, and the child that is too much petted dies young or lives an
invalid. So men who talk too much have nothing for the mind to feed
upon, if indeed they have any mind at all; while those who divide their
time more profitably are enabled by their wisdom and foresight to
untangle the web in which those less wise become entangled."
In this way, the ice being broken, our companion entertained us as the
hours passed. Of all subjects, however, he seemed to like best those
relating to government, and Uncle Job, while having little knowledge of
such matters, had yet a patriotic interest; and so the conversation of
our companion was not allowed to lag, as we journeyed on, for want of an
attentive and appreciative listener.
*CHAPTER XIII*
*THE PLACE OF REFUGE*
The undulations of the great prairie we were traversing added to its
beauty without in any way restricting the distant view, but late in the
forenoon there loomed before us an elevation higher than the others and
so noticeable as to attract and hold attention. Our companion, indeed,
watched it intently from the moment it came into view, and this without
speaking or motion of any kind, as if he were enraptured with the view,
or saw something not perceptible to Uncle Job or myself. When we at
last reached its base, he called to the driver to stop, and excusing
himself, got down and made his way to the top of the hill, and reaching
its summit, stopped and gazed about him and then upward, as if offering
a prayer. Remaining thus for some time, his tall figure outlined against
the distant sky, he at last turned and slowly retraced his steps, taking
his seat in the stage without speaking. Whether oppressed by his
thoughts or interrogating our silence, I know not, but after a while he
turned to Uncle Job, as if in apology or explanation, and said:
"You wonder, perhaps, at what I did, but the hill is a sacred spot to me
because of the recollections that cluster about it and the memory of a
dear friend that is gone."
"Indeed!" Uncle Job replied, sympathetically; "what you say interests me
greatly."
"Yes," our companion went on in a melancholy voice; "and except for his
courage and knowledge of the prairie, I should have suffered a cruel
death near the spot where we now are."
Saying which he relapsed into silence again, and Uncle Job, who was
never curious about other people's affairs, or bashful about expressing
it if he was--which latter is perhaps the more probable of the two--made
no further comment, but sat still, gazing stolidly before him. I, not
having any modesty, and being stirred by what the stranger said, could
not restrain my curiosity, and so spoke up:
"Please, sir, tell us about it, if you will."
At this he smiled, and after a moment's reflection, answered:
"Certainly, if you would like to hear it."
"I should, very much," I replied; whereupon he turned to Uncle Job, as
if to ask his consent, upon which the latter responded, with great
heartiness:
"It would be a pleasure indeed to hear the story, if it is agreeable to
you to tell it."
"There is not much to tell, and of little account to any one now save
myself," the gentleman responded, the shadow deepening in his face as he
spoke. "It was a new experience to me, however, though not uncommon
then or now in our young state. It happened several years ago, when I
had occasion, late in the fall, to cross the prairie we are now
traversing. Fortunately, as it turned out, I fell in with the friend I
speak of, and so was not alone, else I would not be alive to tell it.
The night came on cold and cloudy, the wind, which had been strong
during the day, increasing almost to a hurricane as the evening
advanced. Being well mounted, however, we pushed on, anxious to reach
our destination and scarce speaking a word. As we approached the hill
we have just passed a rim of light, no wider than your finger, attracted
my attention on the edge of the horizon. At first I gave it no thought,
attributing it to some atmospheric disturbance; but upon its spreading
and increasing in brightness, I turned to my companion to see if he
regarded it as important. He, however, was fast asleep, sitting deep in
his saddle with his head buried in his greatcoat, and this though we
were riding at full speed. Loth to wake him, I said nothing for a while,
but the light increasing and our horses showing signs of uneasiness, I
took hold of his arm and spoke to him. At this he straightened up,
snatching a pistol from his belt with the motion as if attacked. In a
moment, however, he was wide-awake, and no sooner did his eyes rest on
the lighted horizon than to my surprise he pulled his horse back on its
haunches, stopping abruptly as if turned to stone. Gazing anxiously for
a moment, he exclaimed, but as if unconscious of my presence:
"'My God! the prairie's on fire.'
"The fear his voice evinced alarmed me; but as the light was many miles
away, I could not see that we were in any danger, and so expressed
myself.
"'Not in danger!' he answered, absently; 'in a quarter of an hour the
fire will have passed miles beyond where we are!'
"Even while we waited, the sky reddened and the circle of light grew
longer and wider, extending now in both directions as far as the eye
could reach. Still it seemed so remote that I could not make myself
believe there was any danger. Not so my companion, who sat still,
scanning the country about us, now beginning to grow red with the coming
conflagration. Looking this way and that, his eyes at last rested on the
hill we have passed, and seeing it he put spurs to his horse, crying:
"'Quick! quick! We may still be in time!'
"Spurring to his side, I called out, 'If there is danger, why not turn
back!'
"'It is too late,' he answered, his voice drowned in the hoofbeats of
our horses and the rush of the wind as it swept across the wide expanse.
"'There is still time to reach the forest,' I cried, following on,
distrustful of his action.
"'No; in ten minutes it will be here, and then the Lord save us!'
"'If that is so, why go forward?' I persisted, as we went on at top
speed, full in the face of the advancing fire.
"To this he made no response, but pointed upward to the hill we were
passing, as if in some way our hope of safety lay there. When we had
circled its base and reached the farther side, and that nearest the
fire, he threw himself from his saddle, and in a voice so loud and
fierce that it sounded high and clear above the shrieking wind, cried:
"'Blindfold and hobble the horses, and for God's sake don't lose time!'
"Saying which, he took from his saddlebags an old-fashioned pistol, and
slipping the flint from out its socket, threw himself on the ground, and
with its aid and the steel of his weapon sought to ignite the dry grass
which covered the plain. Succeeding after a while, he gave a shout, as
one might when saved from death, and springing to his feet, gathered a
wisp of grass, and igniting it, trailed the flame along the base of the
hill, first one way and then the other. In a moment the fierce wind
catching the fire whipped it forward and upward, so that while my task
was yet half done the flames had swept the sides of the height, and
covering it, passed on. Following in a few minutes, we reached the
summit, suffering little harm from the smoking and blistered earth.
Arriving there, we were none too soon, for now the fire, that a little
while before seemed so far away, reached us with leaps and bounds and
such deafening roar that had we not restrained our horses we could by no
means have kept them under control, so great was their terror. Reaching
the edge of the burnt ground on which we stood, the flames leaped high
in the air, as if striving to reach the spot whereon we stood, and this
again and again, but after a while dying down without doing us any harm
whatever.