THE FOREST SPELL
When the adventurers returned the rifle and ax were laid aside at
Wareville, for the moment, because the supreme test was coming. The soil
was now to respond to its trial, or to fail. This was the vital question
to Wareville. The game, in the years to come, must disappear, the forest
would be cut down, but the qualities of the earth would remain; if it
produced well, it would form the basis of a nation, if not, it would be
better to let all the work of the last year go and seek another home
elsewhere.
But the settlers had little doubt. All their lives had been spent close
to the soil, and they were not to be deceived, when they came over the
mountains in search of a land richer than any that they had tilled
before. They had seen its blackness, and, plowing down with the spade,
they had tested its depth. They knew that for ages and ages leaf and
bough, falling upon it, had decayed there and increased its fertility,
and so they awaited the test with confidence.
The green young shoots of the wheat, sown before the winter, were the
first to appear, and everyone in Wareville old enough to know the
importance of such a manifestation went forth to examine them. Mr. Ware,
Mr. Upton and Mr. Pennypacker held solemn conclave, and the final
verdict was given by the schoolmaster, as became a man who might not be
so strenuous in practice as the others, but who nevertheless was more
nearly a master of theory.
"The stalks are at least a third heavier than those in Maryland or
Virginia at the same age," he said, "and we can fairly infer from it
that the grain will show the same proportion of increase. I take a third
as a most conservative estimate; it is really nearer a half. Wareville
can, with reason, count upon twenty-five bushels of wheat to the acre,
and it is likely to go higher."
It was then no undue sense of elation that Wareville felt, and it was
shared by Henry and Paul, and even young Lucy Upton.
"It will be a rich country some day when I'm an old, old woman," she
said to Henry.
"It's a rich country now," replied he proudly, "and it will be a long,
long time before you are an old woman."
They began now to plow the ground cleared the autumn before--"new
ground" they called it--for the spring planting of maize. This, often
termed "Indian corn" but more generally known by the simple name corn,
was to be their chief crop, and the labor of preparation, in which Henry
had his full share, was not light. Their plows were rude, made by
themselves, and finished with a single iron point, and the ground, which
had supported the forest so lately, was full of roots and stumps. So the
passage of the plow back and forth was a trial to both the muscles and
the spirit. Henry's body became sore from head to foot, and by and by,
as the spring advanced and the sun grew hotter, he looked longingly at
the shade of the forest which yet lay so near, and thought of the deep,
cool pools and the silver fish leaping up, until their scales shone like
gold in the sunshine, and of the stags with mighty antlers coming down
to drink. He was sorry for the moment that he was so large and strong
and was so useful with plow and hoe. Then he might be more readily
excused and could take his rifle and seek the depths of the forest,
where everything grew by nature's aid alone, and man need not work,
unless the spirit moved him to do so.
They planted the space close around the fort in gardens and here after
the ground was "broken up" or plowed, the women and the girls, all tall
and strong, did the work.
The summer was splendid in its promise and prodigal in its favors. The
rains fell just right, and all that the pioneers planted came up in
abundance. The soil, so kind to the wheat, was not less so to the corn
and the gardens. Henry surveyed with pride the field of maize cultivated
by himself, in which the stalks were now almost a foot high, looking in
the distance like a delicate green veil spread over the earth. His
satisfaction was shared by all in Wareville because after this
fulfillment of the earth's promises, they looked forward to continued
seasons of plenty.
When the heavy work of planting and cultivating was over and there was
to be a season of waiting for the harvest, Henry went on the great
expedition to the Mississippi.
In the party were Ross, Shif'less Sol, the schoolmaster, Henry and Paul.
Wareville had no white neighbor near and all the settlements lay to the
north or east. Beyond them, across the Ohio, was the formidable cloud of
Indian tribes, the terror of which always overhung the settlers. West of
them was a vast waste of forest spreading away far beyond the
Mississippi, and, so it was supposed, inhabited only by wild animals. It
was thought well to verify this supposition and therefore the exploring
expedition set out.
Each member of the party carried a rifle, hunting knife and ammunition,
and in addition they led three pack horses bearing more ammunition,
their meal, jerked venison and buffalo meat. This little army expected
to live upon the country, but it took the food as a precaution.
They started early of a late but bright summer morning, and Henry found
all his old love of the wilderness returning. Now it would be gratified
to the full, as they should be gone perhaps two months and would pass
through regions wholly unknown. Moreover he had worked hard for a long
time and he felt that his holiday was fully earned; hence there was no
flaw in his hopes.
It required but a few minutes to pass through the cleared ground, the
new fields, and reach the forest and as they looked back they saw what a
slight impression they had yet made on the wilderness. Wareville was but
a bit of human life, nothing more than an islet of civilization in a sea
of forest.
Five minutes more of walking among the trees, and then both Wareville
and the newly opened country around it were shut out. They saw only the
spire of smoke that had been a beacon once to Henry and Paul, rising
high up, until it trailed off to the west with the wind, where it lay
like a whiplash across the sky. This, too, was soon lost as they
traveled deeper into the forest, and then they were alone in the
wilderness, but without fear.
"When we were able to live here without arms or ammunition it's not
likely that we'll suffer, now is it?" said Paul to Henry.
"Suffer!" exclaimed Henry. "It's a journey that I couldn't be hired to
miss."
"It ought to be enjoyable," said Mr. Pennypacker; "that is, if our
relatives don't find it necessary to send into the Northwest, and try to
buy back our scalps from the Indian tribes."
But the schoolmaster was not serious. He had little fear of Indians in
the western part of Kentucky, where they seldom ranged, but he thought
it wise to put a slight restraint upon the exuberance of youth.
They camped that night about fifteen miles from Wareville under the
shadow of a great, overhanging rock, where they cooked some squirrels
that the shiftless one shot, in a tall tree. The schoolmaster upon this
occasion constituted himself cook.
"There is a popular belief," he said when he asserted his place, "that a
man of books is of no practical use in the world. I hereby intend to
give a living demonstration to the contrary."
Ross built the fire, and while the schoolmaster set himself to his task,
Henry and Paul took their fish hooks and lines and went down to the
creek that flowed near. It was so easy to catch perch and other fish
that there was no sport in it, and as soon as they had enough for supper
and breakfast they went back to the fire where the tempting odors that
arose indicated the truth of the schoolmaster's assertion. The squirrels
were done to a turn, and no doubt of his ability remained.
Supper over, they made themselves beds of boughs under the shadow of the
rock, while the horses were tethered near. They sank into dreamless
sleep, and it was the schoolmaster who awakened Paul and Henry the next
morning.
They entered that day a forest of extraordinary grandeur, almost clear
of undergrowth and with illimitable rows of mighty oak and beech trees.
As they passed through, it was like walking under the lofty roof of an
immense cathedral. The large masses of foliage met overhead and shut out
the sun, making the space beneath dim and shadowy, and sometimes it
seemed to the explorers that an echo of their own footsteps came back to
them.
Henry noted the trees, particularly the beeches which here grow to finer
proportions than anywhere else in the world, and said he was glad that
he did not have to cut them down and clear the ground, for the use of
the plow.
After they passed out of this great forest they entered the widest
stretch of open country they had yet seen in Kentucky, though here and
there they came upon patches of bushes.
"I think this must have been burned off by successive forest fires,"
said Ross, "Maybe hunting parties of Indians put the torch to it in
order to drive the game."
Certainly these prairies now contained an abundance of animal life. The
grass was fresh, green and thick everywhere, and from a hill the
explorers saw buffalo, elk, and common deer grazing or browsing on the
bushes.
As the game was so abundant Paul, the least skillful of the party in
such matters, was sent forth that evening to kill a deer and this he
triumphantly accomplished to his own great satisfaction. They again
slept in peace, now under the low-hanging boughs of an oak, and
continued the next day to the west. Thus they went on for days.
It was an easy journey, except when they came to rivers, some of which
were too deep for fording, but Ross had made provision for them. Perched
upon one of the horses was a skin canoe, that is, one made of stout
buffalo hide to be held in shape by a slight framework of wood on the
inside, such as they could make at any time. Two or three trips in this
would carry themselves and all their equipment over the stream while the
horses swam behind.
They soon found it necessary to put their improvised canoe to use as
they came to a great river flowing in a deep channel. Wild ducks flew
about its banks or swam on the dark-blue current that flowed quietly to
the north. This was the Cumberland, though nameless then to the
travelers, and its crossing was a delicate operation as any incautious
movement might tip over the skin canoe, and, while they were all good
swimmers, the loss of their precious ammunition could not be taken as
anything but a terrible misfortune.
Traveling on to the west they came to another and still mightier river,
called by the Indians, so Ross said, the Tennessee, which means in their
language the Great Spoon, so named because the river bent in curves like
a spoon. This river looked even wilder and more picturesque than the
Cumberland, and Henry, as he gazed up its stream, wondered if the white
man would ever know all the strange regions through which it flowed.
Vast swarms of wild fowl, as at the Cumberland, floated upon its waters
or flew near and showed but little alarm as they passed. When they
wished food it was merely to go a little distance and take it as one
walks to a cupboard for a certain dish.
Now, the aspect of the country began to change. The hills sank. The
streams ceased to sparkle and dash helter-skelter over the stones;
instead they flowed with a deep sluggish current and always to the west.
In some the water was so nearly still that they might be called lagoons.
Marshes spread out for great distances, and they were thronged with
millions of wild fowl. The air grew heavier, hotter and damper.
"We must be approaching the Mississippi," said Henry, who was quick to
draw an inference from these new conditions.
"It can't be very far," replied Ross, "because we are in low country
now, and when we get into the lowest the Mississippi will be there."
All were eager for a sight of the great river. Its name was full of
magic for those who came first into the wilderness of Kentucky. It
seemed to them the limits of the inhabitable world. Beyond stretched
vague and shadowy regions, into which hunters and trappers might
penetrate, but where no one yet dreamed of building a home. So it was
with some awe that they would stand upon the shores of this boundary,
this mighty stream that divided the real from the unreal.
But traveling was now slow. There were so many deep creeks and lagoons
to cross, and so many marshes to pass around that they could not make
many miles in a day. They camped for a while on the highest hill that
they could find and fished and hunted. While here they built themselves
a thatch shelter, acting on Ross's advice, and they were very glad that
they did so, as a tremendous rain fell a few days after it was finished,
deluging the country and swelling all the creeks and lagoons. So they
concluded to stay until the earth returned to comparative dryness again
in the sunshine, and meanwhile their horses, which did not stand the
journey as well as their masters, could recuperate.
Two days after they resumed the journey, they stood on the low banks of
the Mississippi and looked at its vast yellow current flowing in a
mile-wide channel, and bearing upon its muddy bosom, bushes and trees,
torn from slopes thousands of miles away. It was not beautiful, it was
not even picturesque, but its size, its loneliness and its desolation
gave it a somber grandeur, which all the travelers felt. It was the same
river that had received De Soto's body many generations before, and it
was still a mystery.
"We know where it goes to, for the sea receives them all," said Mr.
Pennypacker, "but no man knows whence it comes."
"And it would take a good long trip to find out," said Sol.
"A trip that we haven't time to take," returned the schoolmaster.
Henry felt a desire to make that journey, to follow the great stream,
month after month, until he traced it to the last fountain and uncovered
its secret. The power that grips the explorer, that draws him on through
danger, known and unknown, held him as he gazed.
They followed the banks of the stream at a slow pace to the north,
sweltering in the heat which seemed to come to a focus here at the
confluence of great waters, until at last they reached a wide extent of
low country overgrown with bushes and cut with a broad yellow band
coming down from the northeast.
"The Ohio!" said Ross.
And so it was; it was here that the stream called by the Indians "The
Beautiful River"--though not deserving the name at this place--lost
itself in the Mississippi and at the junction it seemed full as mighty a
river as the great Father of Waters himself.
They did not stay long at the meeting of the two rivers, fearing the
miasma of the marshy soil, but retreated to the hills where they went
into camp again. Yet Ross, and Henry, and Sol crossed both the Ohio and
the Mississippi in the frail canoe for the sake of saying that they had
been on the farther shores. The three, leaving Paul and the schoolmaster
to guard the camp, even penetrated to a considerable distance in the
prairie country beyond the Ohio. Here Henry saw for the first time a
buffalo herd of size. Buffaloes were common enough in Kentucky, but the
country being mostly wooded they roamed there in small bands. North of
the Ohio he now beheld these huge shaggy animals in thousands and he
narrowly escaped being trampled to death by a herd which, frightened by
a pack of wolves, rushed down upon him like a storm. It was Ross who
saved him by shooting the leading bull, thus compelling them to divide
when they came to his body, by which action they left a clear space
where he and Henry stood. After that Henry, as became one of
fast-ripening experience and judgment, grew more cautious.
All the party were in keen enjoyment of the great journey, and felt in
their veins the thrill of the wilderness. Paul's studious face took on
the brown tan of autumn, and even the schoolmaster, a man of years who
liked the ways of civilization, saw only the pleasures of the forest and
closed his eyes to its hardships. But there was none who was caught so
deeply in the spell of the wilderness as Henry, not even Ross nor the
shiftless one. There was something in the spirit of the boy that
responded to the call of the winds through the deep woods, a harking
back to the man primeval, a love for nature and silence.
The forest hid many things from the schoolmaster, but he knew the hearts
of men, and he could read their thoughts in their eyes, and he was the
first to notice the change in Henry or rather less a change than a
deepening and strengthening of a nature that had not found until now its
true medium. The boy did not like to hear them speak of the return, he
loved his people and he would serve them always as best he could, but
they were prosperous and happy back there in Wareville and did not need
him; now the forest beckoned to him, and, speaking to him in a hundred
voices, bade him stay. When he roamed the woods, their majesty and leafy
silence appealed to all his senses. The two vast still rivers threw over
him the spell of mystery, and the secret of the greater one, its hidden
origin, tantalized him. Often he gazed northward along its yellow
current and wondered if he could not pierce that secret. Dimly in his
mind, formed a plan to follow the yellow stream to its source some day,
and again he thrilled with the thought of great adventures and mighty
wanderings, where men of his race had never gone before.
Knowledge, too, came to him with an ease and swiftness that filled with
surprise experienced foresters like Ross and Sol. The woods seemed to
unfold their secrets to him. He learned the nature of all the herbs,
those that might be useful to man and those that might be harmful, he
was already as skillful with a canoe as either the guide or the
shiftless one, he could follow a trail like an Indian, and the habits of
the wild animals he observed with a minute and remembering eye. All the
lore of those far-away primeval ancestors suddenly reappeared in him at
the voice of the woods, and was ready for his use.
"It will not be long until Henry is a man," said Ross one evening as
they sat before their camp fire and saw the boy approaching, a deer that
he had killed borne upon his shoulders.
"He is a man now," said the schoolmaster with gravity and emphasis as he
looked attentively at the figure of the youth carrying the deer. No one
ever before had given him such an impression of strength and physical
alertness. He seemed to have grown, to have expanded visibly since their
departure from Wareville. The muscles of his arm stood up under the
close-fitting deerskin tunic, and the length of limb and breadth of
shoulder in the boy indicated a coming man of giant mold.
"What a hunter and warrior he will make!" said Ross.
"A future leader of wilderness men," said Mr. Pennypacker softly, "but
there is wild blood in those veins; he will have to be handled well."
Henry threw down the deer and greeted them with cheerful words that came
spontaneously from a joyful soul. They had built their fire, not a large
one, in an oak opening and all around the trees rose like a mighty
circular wall. The red shadows of a sun that had just set lingered on
the western edge of the forest, but in the east all was black. Out of
this vastness came the rustling sound of the wind as it moved among the
autumn leaves. In the opening was a core of ruddy light and the living
forms of men, but it was only a tiny spot in the immeasurable
wilderness.
The schoolmaster and he alone felt their littleness. The autumn night
was crisp, and from his seat on a log he held out his fingers to the
warm blaze. Now and then a yellow or red leaf caught in the light wind
drifted to his feet and he gazed up half in fear at the great encircling
wall of blackness. Then he uttered silent thanks that he was with such
trusty men as the guide and the shiftless one.
The effect upon Henry was not the same. He had become silent while the
others talked, and he half reclined against a tree, looking at the sky
that showed a dim and shadowy disk through the opening. But there was
nothing of fear in his mind. A delicious sense of peace and satisfaction
crept over him. All the voices of the night seemed familiar and good. A
lizard slipped through the grass and the eye and ear of Henry alone
noticed it; neither the guide nor the shiftless one had seen or heard
its passage. He measured the disk of the heavens with his glance and
foretold unerringly whether it would be clear or cloudy on the morrow,
and when something rustled in the woods, he knew, without looking, that
it was a hare frightened by the blaze fleeing from its covert. A tiny
brook trickled at the far edge of the fire's rim, and he could tell by
the color of the waters through what kind of soil it had come.
Paul sat down near him, and began to talk of home. Henry smiled upon him
indulgently; his old relation of protector to the younger boy had grown
stronger during this trip; in the forest he was his comrade's superior
by far, and Paul willingly admitted it; in such matters he sought no
rivalry with his friend.
"I wonder what they are doing way down there?" said Paul, waving his
hand toward the southeast. "Just think of it, Henry! they are only one
little spot in the wilderness, and we are only another little spot way
up here! In all the hundreds of miles between, there may not be another
white face!"
"It is likely true, but what of it?" replied Henry. "The bigger the
wilderness the more room in it for us to roam in. I would rather have
great forests than great towns."
He turned lazily and luxuriously on his side, and, gazing into the red
coals, began to see there visions of other forests and vast plains, with
himself wandering on among the trees and over the swells. His comrades
said nothing more because it was comfortable in their little camp, and
the peace of the wilds was over them all. The night was cold, but the
circling wall of trees sheltered the opening, and the fire in the center
radiated a grateful heat in which they basked. The scholar, Mr.
Pennypacker, rested his face upon his hands, and he, too, was dreaming
as he stared into the blaze. Paul, his blanket wrapped around him and
his head pillowed upon soft boughs, was asleep already. Ross and Sol
dozed.
But Henry neither slept nor wished to do so. His gaze shifted from the
red coals to the silver disk of the sky. The world seemed to him very
beautiful and very intimate. These illimitable expanses of forest
conveyed to him no sense of either awe or fear. He was at home. He had
become for the time a being of the night, piercing the darkness with the
eyes of a wild creature, and hearkening to the familiar voices around
him that spoke to him and to him alone. Never was sleep farther from
him. The shifting firelight in its flickering play fell upon his face
and revealed it in all its clear young boyish strength, the firm neck,
the masterful chin, the calm, resolute eyes set wide apart, the lean
big-boned fingers, lying motionless across his knees.
Mr. Pennypacker began to nod, then he, too, wrapped himself in his
blanket, lay back and soon fell fast asleep; in a few minutes Sol
followed him to the land of real dreams, and after a brief interval
Ross, too, yielded. Henry alone was awake, drinking deep of the night
and its lonely joy.
The silver disk of the sky turned into gray under a cloud, the darkness
swept up deeper and thicker, the light of the fire waned, but the boy
still leaned against the log, and upon his sensitive mind every change
of the wilderness was registered as upon the delicate surface of a
plate. He glanced at his sleeping comrades and smiled. The smile was the
index to an unconscious feeling of superiority. Ross and Sol were two or
three times his age, but they slept while he watched, and not Ross
himself in all his years in the wilderness had learned many things that
came to him by intuition.
Hours passed and the boy was yet awake. New feelings, vague and
undetermined came into his mind but through them all went the feeling of
mastery. He, though a boy, was in many respects the chief, and while he
need not assert his leadership yet a while, he could never doubt its
possession.
The light died far down and only a few smoldering coals were left. The
blackness of the night, coming ever closer and closer, hovered over his
companions and hid their faces from him. The great trunks of the trees
grew shadowy and dim. Out of the darkness came a sound slight but not in
harmony with the ordinary noises of the forest. His acute senses, the
old inherited primitive instinct, noticed at once the jarring note. He
moved ever so little but an extraordinary change came over his face. The
idle look of luxury and basking warmth passed away and the eyes became
alert, watchful, defiant. Every feature, every muscle was drawn, as if
he were at the utmost tension. Almost unconsciously his figure sank down
farther against the log, until it blended perfectly with the bark and
the fallen leaves below. Only an eye of preternatural keenness could
have separated the outline of the boy from the general scene.
For five minutes he lay and moved not a particle. Then the discordant
note came again among the familiar sounds of the forest and he glanced
at his comrades. They slept peacefully. His lip curled slightly, not
with contempt but with that unconscious feeling of superiority; they
would not have noticed, even had they been awake.
His hands moved forward and grasped his rifle. Then he began to slip
away from the opening and into the forest, not by walking nor altogether
by crawling, but by a curious, noiseless, gliding motion, almost like
that of a serpent. Always he clung to the shadows where his shifting
body still blended with the dark, and as he advanced other primitive
instincts blazed up in him. He was a hunter pursuing for the first time
the highest and most dangerous game of all game and the thrill through
his veins was so keen that he shivered slightly. His chin was projected,
and his eyes were two red spots in the night. All the while his comrades
by the fire, even the trained foresters, slumbered in peace, no warning
whatever coming to their heavy heads.
The boy reached the wall of the woods, and now his form was completely
swallowed up in the blackness there. He lay a while in the bushes,
motionless, all his senses alert, and for the third time the jarring
note came to his ears. The maker of it was on his right, and, as he
judged, perhaps a couple of hundred yards away. He would proceed at once
to that point. It is truth to say that no thought of danger entered his
mind; the thrills of the present and its chances absorbed him. It seemed
natural that he should do this thing, he was merely resuming an old
labor, discontinued for a time.
He raised his head slightly, but even his keen eyes could see nothing in
the forest save trunks and branches, ghostly and shapeless, and the
regular rustle of the wind was not broken now by the jarring note. But
the darkness heavy and ominous, was permeated with the signs of things
about to happen, and heavy with danger, a danger, however, that brought
no fear to Henry for himself, only for others. A faint sighing note as
of a distant bird came on the wind, and pausing, he listened intently.
He knew that it was not a bird, that sound was made by human lips, and
once more a light shiver passed over his frame; it was a signal,
concerning his comrades and himself, and he would turn aside the danger
from those old friends of his who slept by the fire, in peace and
unknowing.
He resumed his cautious passage through the undergrowth, and, the
inherited instinct blossoming so suddenly into full flower, was still
his guide. Not a sound marked his advance, the forest fell silently
behind him, and he went on with unerring knowledge to the spot from
which the discordant sounds had come.
He approached another opening among the trees, like unto that in which
his comrades slept, and now, lying close in the undergrowth, he looked
for the first time upon the sight which so often boded ill to his kind.
The warriors were in a group, some sitting others standing, and though
there was no fire and the moonlight was slight he could mark the
primitive brutality of their features, the nature of the animal that
fought at all times for life showing in their eyes. They were hard,
harsh and repellent in every aspect, but the boy felt for a moment a
singular attraction, there was even a distant feeling of kinship as if
he, too, could live this life and had lived it. But the feeling quickly
passed, and in its place came the thought of his comrades whom he must
save.
The older of the warriors talked in a low voice, saying unknown words in
a harsh, guttural tongue, and Henry could guess only at their meaning.
But they seemed to be awaiting a signal and presently the low thrilling
note was heard again. Then the warriors turned as if this were the
command to do so, and came directly toward the boy who lay in the
darkest shadows of the undergrowth.
Henry was surprised and startled but only for a moment, then the
primeval instinct came to his aid and swiftly he sank away in the bushes
in front of them, as before, no sound marking his passage. He thought
rapidly and in all his thoughts there was none of himself but as the
savior of the little party. It seemed to come to him naturally that he
should be the protector and champion.
When he had gone about fifty yards he uttered a shout, long, swelling
and full of warning. Then he turned to his right and crashed through the
undergrowth, purposely making a noise that the pursuing warriors could
not fail to hear. Ross and the others, he knew, would be aroused
instantly by his cry and would take measures of safety. Now the savages
would be likely to follow him alone, and he noted by the sounds that
they had turned aside to do so.
At this moment Henry Ware felt nothing but exultation that he, a boy,
should prove himself a match for all the cunning of the forest-bred, and
he thought not at all of the pursuit that came so fiercely behind him.
He ran swiftly and now directly more than a mile from the camp of his
friends. Then the inherited instinct that had served him so well failed;
it could not warn him of the deep little river that lay straight across
his path flowing toward the Mississippi. He came out upon its banks and
was ready to drop down in its waters, but he saw that before he could
reach the farther shore he would be a target for his pursuers. He
hesitated and was about to turn at a sharp angle, but the warriors
emerged from the forest. It was then too late.
The savages uttered a shout of triumph, the long, ferocious, whining
note, so terrible in its intensity and meaning, and Henry, raising his
rifle, fired at a painted breast. The next moment they were hurled upon
him in a brown mass. He felt a stunning blow upon the head, sparks flew
before his eyes, and the world reeled away into darkness.