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BOLANYO
A Novel
by
OPIE READ
Author of A Kentucky Colonel The Jucklins etc
Chicago
Printed for
Way & Williams
MDCCCXCVII
Copyright, 1897, by Way & Williams.
The Cover Designed by Mr. Maxfield Parrish.
Decorations by Mr. Charles Francis Browne.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. ON THE RIVER 1
II. IN THE AIR 13
III. THE BLACK GIANT 20
IV. THE SENATOR 28
V. A MOMENT OF FORGIVENESS 36
VI. INTRODUCED TO MRS. ESTELL 50
VII. THE NOTORIOUS BUGG PETERS 66
VIII. THE STATE TREASURER 82
IX. PUBLIC ENTERTAINERS 99
X. MR. PETTICORD 117
XI. THE CHARM OF AN OLD TOWN 131
XII. A MATTER OF BUSINESS 154
XIII. THE PLACE OF THE GOBLINS 164
XIV. OLD JOE VARK 172
XV. OLD AUNT PATSEY 187
XVI. THE PLAY 203
XVII. A SLOW STEP ON THE STAIRS 219
XVIII. TO MEET THE MANAGER 226
XIX. BURN THE JUNIPER 233
XX. GLEANING THE FIELD 241
XXI. THE WORK OF THE SCOUNDREL 251
XXII. IN THE THICKET 258
XXIII. THE RINGING OF THE BELL 269
XXIV. MAGNOLIA LAND 280
XXV. DOWN A DARK ALLEY 291
XXVI. CONCLUSION--IN THE GARDEN 300
BOLANYO
CHAPTER I.
ON THE RIVER.
On the night of the 26th of April our company closed an engagement at
the St. Charles Theatre in New Orleans; and before the clocks began to
strike the hour of twelve, our bags and baggage had been tumbled on
board a steamboat headed for St. Louis. The prospects of the National
Dramatic Company had been bright; competent critics had pronounced our
new play a work of true and sympathetic art, before production, but had
slashed at our tender vitals when the piece had passed from rehearsal to
presentation. The bad beginning in the East had not truthfully foretold
a good ending in the South. The people had failed to sympathize with our
"Work of Sympathetic Art." Hope had leaped from town to town; was always
sure to fall, but always quick to rise again; and, now, three nights in
St. Louis would close the season, and doubtless end the career of the
National Dramatic Company. The captain of the Red Fox, a dingy,
waterlogged and laborious craft, had kindly offered to let us come
aboard at half his usual rate. He assured our manager that this
concession afforded a real pleasure; that he held a keen interest in our
profession, having years ago done a clog dance as a negro minstrel.
Necessity oozed oil upon this unconscious sarcasm, and with grateful
dignity the captain's offer was accepted.
By two o'clock we were creaking and churning against the current, and,
alone in a begrimed cubby-hole, with a looking-glass shaking against the
frail wall, I lay down with a sigh to take stock of myself. Hope had
been agile, but now it did not bound with so light a spring. Could it be
that I had begun to question my ability as an actor? It was true that
the critics had slit me with their knives, but the people had frequently
applauded, and, after all, the people deliver the verdict. The judge may
charge, but the jury pronounces. I knew then, as I know now, that there
must be a reserve force behind all forms of art; that one essential of
artistic expression is to create the belief that you are not doing your
best, that you are not under a strain. And I thought that I had
accomplished this, but the critics had said that my restraint was weak
and my passion overwrought. I had not come out as a star. As a stock
comedian I had been granted a kindly mention, and had accepted the place
of leading man, but this had given offense and had called forth an
unjust tirade of censure. Perhaps I had assumed a little too much, but
the man who is not ready to assume will never accomplish anything, and
from a lower station must be content to contemplate the success of those
who were less delicate.
When morning came I looked out upon the canefields, green to the edge of
the horizon. The breakfast bell rang, but I hung back, not for lack of
appetite, but for the reason that the other members of the company had
ceased to be companionable. Even a meager applause can excite, if not
envy, a certain degree of contempt; and the small stint of approbation
which, like a mere crumb, had fallen to me could not have aroused the
jealousy, but surely sharpened the sarcasms, of my fellow-players. In a
side remark intended for me, and which struck me like a shaft,
Culpepper, as vain a fellow as ever mismumbled an author's lines,
remarked to Miss Hatch that an elephant would stretch his chain to
reach a bonbon. And, stroking as brutish a pug as ever found soft
luxury in a woman's lap, she replied that it was a pity that the average
theatrical elephant, foisted upon an easy manager, could only rival the
real beast in clumsiness and in his appetite for sweets. So I waited,
gazing out upon the edgeless spread of cane-land, until my companions in
"sympathetic art" had indulged in the usual growl over their morning
meal, and then I went out to breakfast. At the table sat one person, an
oldish man with a dash of red in his countenance. As I sat down he
looked up, and, with a pleasing smile, inquired if I were Mr. Maurice
Belford. And when I had told him yes, he said:
"I thought so, or 'mistrusted' as much, as Old Bill Brooks used to say,"
he added, laughing. "Didn't know old Bill, I take it? Used to travel a
good deal up and down the river, and was a great hand to go to a show.
And he'd always set 'em through. No, sir, he wouldn't leave you. And
this puts me in mind that I saw you play the other night. You caught
me, I tell you. That character of _Tobe Wilson_, the gambler, was about
as true a thing as I ever saw."
"I am much pleased to hear you say so," I replied, warming toward him.
"But the critics said it was overdone and unreal," I added.
"The critics said so; who are they?"
"The newspaper representatives who come to the theater to find fault," I
answered.
"Oh, that's it, eh? I didn't see what any of 'em said, and it wouldn't
make any difference if I had. I've been a pilot on this river mighty
nigh ever since I was a boy, and if I don't know what a real gambler is,
I'd like for some man to point one out to me."
"I am really delighted to meet you, for surely your opinion is worth a
great deal."
"Don't know about that," he replied, "but I know what a gambler is. Why,
I set all the way through your show. Fellow wanted me to go out with
him, but I wouldn't. And right by me set Senator Giles Talcom, of
Mississippi. I live in Bolanyo, his town. It's improved mightily in the
last twenty-five years. Got a new city hall, and some Dutchmen from the
north are talking about starting a brewery. Now, Talcom is a smart man
and he liked your show; said he was sorry you are to skip Bolanyo on
your way up the river. As soon as I git a bite to eat I'm going up to
take the wheel. Wouldn't you like to sit in the pilot house?"
Glad to accept the invitation of one who had the insight to recognize an
artistic delineation of character, and the graciousness to declare it, I
went with him to the pilot house. He took the wheel from a man who, I
thought, did not look upon me kindly, and continued to talk, while with
an intentness that traced a frown upon his brow he estimated the
strength of the current, or the depth of the water on a shoal. The
river was low; the winter had been comparatively dry; the early spring
thaw had spent its force, and there was as yet no premonitory swell of
the great summer rise. The morning was sunless and soft, and far away a
dragon-shaped mist lay low upon the land, a giant's nightmare, fading in
the pale light of a reluctant day.
"The old river's dead," said the pilot, with the reverberations of a
knell in the tone of his voice. "Look at that thing fluttering along
over there, where the Lee and the Natchez used to plow. No, sir, the old
Mississippi ain't much better than a sewer now. But she was a roarer
back yonder in my time, I tell you. Ah, Lord, some great men have
piloted palaces along here."
"Whom do you regard as the greatest?" I inquired, expecting to hear him
pronounce a name well known to the stage and to literature.
"Well, of course there's a difference of opinion among them that don't
know, but with them that do know there never was a pilot that could
hold a candle to old Lige Patton."
"I don't believe I ever heard of him," I replied.
"Hah!" He turned his eyes upon me, with the up-river search still strong
in his gaze, but as with a snatch he jerked them away and threw them
upon a split in the current far ahead. "That might be," he assented,
slowly turning his wheel. "I can jump off here most anywhere and find
you a man that never heard of Julius Caesar."
I preferred to remain silent under this rebuke, and he did not speak
again until we had sheered off to the left of the split in the current,
a snag, and then he said:
"Lige didn't weigh more than a hundred and sixty pounds at his best, and
the boys used to say there wan't no meat on him at all, nothing but
nerve. Game!" He cleared his throat, gave me a mere glance and
continued: "It was said that a panther once met him in the woods, and
gave vent to a most unearthly squall, which meant, 'excuse me, Mr.
Patton,' and took to his heels and never was heard of in that section
after that--the panther wan't--although he had been mighty popular among
the pigs and sheep of that neighborhood. But Lige never killed many men.
Never killed except when he was overpersuaded. Gave up a good position
once and went all the way to Jackson to call the governor of Mississippi
a liar. And what was that for? Why, the governor issued a thanksgiving
proclamation in spite of the fact that the river had been low for three
months, making it pretty tough work for the pilots; and Lige, he
declared that a governor who said that the people ought to be thankful
was a liar. And I've got a little more religion now than I had at that
time, but blamed if I don't still think he was right. I spoke a while
ago of Senator Talcom, who lives in my town. Well, sir, Lige give Talcom
his start in the world. It was this way: Lige wan't altogether a lamb
when he was drinking; he sorter looked for a fight, but, understand, he
didn't want to kill anybody, unless _over_persuaded. Talcom was a young
fellow, at that time, and had just come to town. And, somehow, he got in
Lige's way, and they fought. And if there ever was a man that had more
wire than Lige, it was Talcom. It must have been some sort of an
accident, but, somehow, he got the upper hand of Lige, got him down, got
out his knife, and was about to cut his throat, when Lige said: 'Young
fellow, you may put out my light as soon as you please, for you can do
it, but there's one thing, and one thing only, that I'd like to live
for, and that is to see what you are going to make of yourself.' Blamed
if this didn't tickle Talcom, and he got up and flung his knife away.
And, now to the point, sir; Lige went all around and told it that Talcom
whipped him, and that was the making of Talcom. Now look at him--been in
the State Senate year after year. Yes, sir," he added, "I reckon that in
one way and another Lige Patton developed more men than anybody that
ever struck this country."