Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, Martin Robb, and David Widger
EBEN HOLDEN A TALE OF THE NORTH COUNTRY
By Irving Bacheller
PREFACE
Early in the last century the hardy wood-choppers began to come west,
out of Vermont. They founded their homes in the Adirondack wildernesses
and cleared their rough acres with the axe and the charcoal pit. After
years of toil in a rigorous climate they left their sons little besides
a stumpy farm and a coon-skin overcoat. Far from the centres of life
their amusements, their humours, their religion, their folk lore,
their views of things had in them the flavour of the timber lands, the
simplicity of childhood. Every son was nurtured in the love of honour
and of industry, and the hope of sometime being president. It is to be
feared this latter thing and the love of right living, for its own sake,
were more in their thoughts than the immortal crown that had been the
inspiration of their fathers. Leaving the farm for the more promising
life of the big city they were as men born anew, and their second
infancy was like that of Hercules. They had the strength of manhood,
the tireless energy of children and some hope of the highest things.
The pageant of the big town--its novelty, its promise, its art, its
activity--quickened their highest powers, put them to their best effort.
And in all great enterprises they became the pathfinders, like their
fathers in the primeval forest.
This book has grown out of such enforced leisure as one may find in a
busy life. Chapters begun in the publicity of a Pullman car have been
finished in the cheerless solitude of a hotel chamber. Some have
had their beginning in a sleepless night and their end in a day of
bronchitis. A certain pious farmer in the north country when, like
Agricola, he was about to die, requested the doubtful glory of this
epitaph: 'He was a poor sinner, but he done his best' Save for the fact
that I am an excellent sinner, in a literary sense, the words may stand
for all the apology I have to make.
The characters were mostly men and women I have known and who left
with me a love of my kind that even a wide experience with knavery and
misfortune has never dissipated. For my knowledge of Mr Greeley I
am chiefly indebted to David P. Rhoades, his publisher, to Philip
Fitzpatrick, his pressman, to the files of the Tribune and to many
books.
IRVING BACHELLER New York City, 7 April 1900
BOOK ONE
Chapter I
If all the people that ever went west that expedition was the most
remarkable.
A small boy in a big basket on the back of a jolly old man, who carried
a cane in one hand, a rifle in the other; a black dog serving as scout,
skirmisher and rear guard--that was the size of it. They were the
survivors of a ruined home in the north of Vermont, and were travelling
far into the valley of the St Lawrence, but with no particular
destination.
Midsummer had passed them in their journey; their clothes were covered
with dust; their faces browning in the hot sun. It was a very small boy
that sat inside the basket and clung to the rim, his tow head shaking as
the old man walked. He saw wonderful things, day after day, looking down
at the green fields or peering into the gloomy reaches of the wood; and
he talked about them.
'Uncle Eb--is that where the swifts are?' he would ask often; and the
old man would answer, 'No; they ain't real sassy this time o' year. They
lay 'round in the deep dingles every day.'
Then the small voice would sing idly or prattle with an imaginary being
that had a habit of peeking over the edge of the basket or would shout a
greeting to some bird or butterfly and ask finally: 'Tired, Uncle Eb?'
Sometimes the old gentleman would say 'not very', and keep on, looking
thoughtfully at the ground. Then, again, he would stop and mop his bald
head with a big red handkerchief and say, a little tremor of irritation
in his voice: 'Tired! who wouldn't be tired with a big elephant like you
on his back all day? I'd be 'shamed o' myself t' set there an' let an
old man carry me from Dan to Beersheba. Git out now an' shake yer legs.'
I was the small boy and I remember it was always a great relief to get
out of the basket, and having run ahead, to lie in the grass among the
wild flowers, and jump up at him as he came along.
Uncle Eb had been working for my father five years before I was born. He
was not a strong man and had never been able to carry the wide swath of
the other help in the fields, but we all loved him for his kindness and
his knack of story-telling. He was a bachelor who came over the mountain
from Pleasant Valley, a little bundle of clothes on his shoulder, and
bringing a name that enriched the nomenclature of our neighbourhood. It
was Eben Holden.
He had a cheerful temper and an imagination that was a very wilderness
of oddities. Bears and panthers growled and were very terrible in that
strange country. He had invented an animal more treacherous than any
in the woods, and he called it a swift. 'Sumthin' like a panther', he
described the look of it: a fearsome creature that lay in the edge of
the woods at sundown and made a noise like a woman crying, to lure the
unwary. It would light one's eye with fear to hear Uncle Eb lift his
voice in the cry of the swift. Many a time in the twilight when the bay
of a hound or some far cry came faintly through the wooded hills, I
have seen him lift his hand and bid us hark. And when we had listened
a moment, our eyes wide with wonder, he would turn and say in a low,
half-whispered tone: ''S a swift' I suppose we needed more the fear of
God, but the young children of the pioneer needed also the fear of the
woods or they would have strayed to their death in them.
A big bass viol, taller than himself, had long been the solace of his
Sundays. After he had shaved--a ceremony so solemn that it seemed a rite
of his religion--that sacred viol was uncovered. He carried it sometimes
to the back piazza and sometimes to the barn, where the horses shook and
trembled at the roaring thunder of the strings. When he began playing
we children had to get well out of the way, and keep our distance. I
remember now the look of him, then--his thin face, his soft black eyes,
his long nose, the suit of broadcloth, the stock and standing collar
and, above all, the solemnity in his manner when that big devil of a
thing was leaning on his breast.
As to his playing I have never heard a more fearful sound in any time of
peace or one less creditable to a Christian. Weekdays he was addicted to
the milder sin of the flute and, after chores, if there were no one to
talk with him, he would sit long and pour his soul into that magic bar
of boxwood.
Uncle Eb had another great accomplishment. He was what they call in the
north country 'a natural cooner'. After nightfall, when the corn was
ripening, he spoke in a whisper and had his ear cocked for coons. But he
loved all kinds of good fun.
So this man had a boy in his heart and a boy in his basket that evening
we left the old house. My father and mother and older brother had been
drowned in the lake, where they had gone for a day of pleasure. I had
then a small understanding of my loss, hat I have learned since that
the farm was not worth the mortgage and that everything had to be sold.
Uncle Eb and I--a little lad, a very little lad of six--were all that
was left of what had been in that home. Some were for sending me to the
county house; but they decided, finally, to turn me over to a dissolute
uncle, with some allowance for my keep. Therein Uncle Eb was to
be reckoned with. He had set his heart on keeping me, but he was a
farm-hand without any home or visible property and not, therefore, in
the mind of the authorities, a proper guardian. He had me with him in
the old house, and the very night he heard they were coming after me in
the morning, we started on our journey. I remember he was a long time
tying packages of bread and butter and tea and boiled eggs to the rim
of the basket, so that they hung on the outside. Then he put a woollen
shawl and an oilcloth blanket on the bottom, pulled the straps over his
shoulders and buckled them, standing before the looking-glass, and, hang
put on my cap and coat, stood me on the table, and stooped so that I
could climb into the basket--a pack basket, that he had used in hunting,
the top a little smaller than the bottom. Once in, I could stand
comfortably or sit facing sideways, my back and knees wedged from port
to starboard. With me in my place he blew out the lantern and groped his
way to the road, his cane in one hand, his rifle in the other. Fred, our
old dog--a black shepherd, with tawny points--came after us. Uncle
Eb scolded him and tried to send him back, but I pleaded for the poor
creature and that settled it, he was one of our party.
'Dunno how we'll feed him,' said Uncle Eb. 'Our own mouths are big
enough t' take all we can carry, but I hain' no heart t' leave 'im all
'lone there.'
I was old for my age, they tell me, and had a serious look and a wise
way of talking, for a boy so young; but I had no notion of what lay
before or behind us.
'Now, boy, take a good look at the old house,' I remember he whispered
to me at the gate that night ''Tain't likely ye'll ever see it ag'in.
Keep quiet now,' he added, letting down the bars at the foot of the
lane. 'We're goin' west an' we mustn't let the grass grow under us. Got
t'be purty spry I can tell ye.'
It was quite dark and he felt his way carefully down the cow-paths into
the broad pasture. With every step I kept a sharp lookout for swifts,
and the moon shone after a while, making my work easier.
I had to hold my head down, presently, when the tall brush began to whip
the basket and I heard the big boots of Uncle Eb ripping the briars.
Then we came into the blackness of the thick timber and I could hear him
feeling his way over the dead leaves with his cane. I got down, shortly,
and walked beside him, holding on to the rifle with one hand. We
stumbled, often, and were long in the trail before we could see the
moonlight through the tree columns. In the clearing I climbed to my
seat again and by and by we came to the road where my companion sat down
resting his load on a boulder.
'Pretty hot, Uncle Eb, pretty hot,' he said to himself, fanning his brow
with that old felt hat he wore everywhere. 'We've come three mile er
more without a stop an' I guess we'd better rest a jiffy.'
My legs ached too, and I was getting very sleepy. I remember the jolt
of the basket as he rose, and hearing him say, 'Well, Uncle Eb, I guess
we'd better be goin'.'
The elbow that held my head, lying on the rim of the basket, was already
numb; but the prickling could no longer rouse me, and half-dead with
weariness, I fell asleep. Uncle Eb has told me since, that I tumbled out
of the basket once, and that he had a time of it getting me in again,
but I remember nothing more of that day's history.
When I woke in the morning, I could hear the crackling of fire, and felt
very warm and cosy wrapped in the big shawl. I got a cheery greeting
from Uncle Eb, who was feeding the fire with a big heap of sticks that
he had piled together. Old Fred was licking my hands with his rough
tongue, and I suppose that is what waked me. Tea was steeping in the
little pot that hung over the fire, and our breakfast of boiled eggs and
bread and butter lay on a paper beside it. I remember well the scene
of our little camp that morning. We had come to a strange country, and
there was no road in sight. A wooded hill lay back of us, and, just
before, ran a noisy little brook, winding between smooth banks, through
a long pasture into a dense wood. Behind a wall on the opposite shore a
great field of rustling corn filled a broad valley and stood higher than
a man's head.
While I went to wash my face in the clear water Uncle Eb was husking
some ears of corn that he took out of his pocket, and had them roasting
over the fire in a moment. We ate heartily, giving Fred two big slices
of bread and butter, packing up with enough remaining for another day.
Breakfast over we doused the fire and Uncle Eb put on his basket He made
after a squirrel, presently, with old Fred, and brought him down out of
a tree by hurling stones at him and then the faithful follower of our
camp got a bit of meat for his breakfast. We climbed the wall, as he
ate, and buried ourselves in the deep corn. The fragrant, silky tassels
brushed my face and the corn hissed at our intrusion, crossing its green
sabers in our path. Far in the field my companion heaped a little of the
soft earth for a pillow, spread the oil cloth between rows and, as we
lay down, drew the big shawl over us. Uncle Eb was tired after the toil
of that night and went asleep almost as soon as he was down. Before I
dropped off Fred came and licked my face and stepped over me, his tail
wagging for leave, and curled upon the shawl at my feet. I could see no
sky in that gloomy green aisle of corn. This going to bed in the morning
seemed a foolish business to me that day and I lay a long time looking
up at the rustling canopy overhead. I remember listening to the waves
that came whispering out of the further field, nearer and nearer, until
they swept over us with a roaring swash of leaves, like that of water
flooding among rocks, as I have heard it often. A twinge of homesickness
came to me and the snoring of Uncle Eb gave me no comfort. I remember
covering my head and crying softly as I thought of those who had gone
away and whom I was to meet in a far country, called Heaven, whither we
were going. I forgot my sorrow, finally, in sleep. When I awoke it had
grown dusk under the corn. I felt for Uncle Eb and he was gone. Then I
called to him.
'Hush, boy! lie low,' he whispered, bending over me, a sharp look in his
eye.' 'Fraid they're after us.'
He sat kneeling beside me, holding Fred by the collar and listening. I
could hear voices, the rustle of the corn and the tramp of feet near
by. It was thundering in the distance--that heavy, shaking thunder that
seems to take hold of the earth, and there were sounds in the corn
like the drawing of sabers and the rush of many feet. The noisy thunder
clouds came nearer and the voices that had made us tremble were no
longer heard. Uncle Eb began to fasten the oil blanket to the stalks of
corn for a shelter. The rain came roaring over us. The sound of it was
like that of a host of cavalry coming at a gallop. We lay bracing the
stalks, the blanket tied above us and were quite dry for a time. The
rain rattled in the sounding sheaves and then came flooding down the
steep gutters. Above us beam and rafter creaked, swaying, and showing
glimpses of the dark sky. The rain passed--we could hear the last
battalion leaving the field--and then the tumult ended as suddenly as
it began. The corn trembled a few moments and hushed to a faint whisper.
Then we could hear only the drip of raindrops leaking through the green
roof. It was dark under the corn.