THE WILDERNESS
Between the cities of Memphis and Vicksburg there lies a great
battle-ground. It has known encounters between red men and red,
between red men and white, and has known the shock of arms when white
has been arrayed against white. Most of all, it is a battle-ground
yet to be, whereon perhaps there shall be waged a conflict between
white and black. Always, too, it will be the battle-ground between
civilized man and the relapsing savagery of nature; between man and
the wilderness; between the white race and great Messasebe, Father of
the Waters.
Father Messasebe is, after all, but weakly bound to the ways of
commerce. His voice is always for the wild; his wish is for the
ancient ways. Here in the far wild country--a part of which even to-
day is a more trackless and a less known wilderness than any in the
heart of our remotest mountain ranges--the great river reaches out a
thousand clutching fingers for his own, claiming it as a home even
now for his savagery; asking it, if not for a wild red race, then for
the black one which may one day prove its savage successor.
Here is the reekingly rich soil of the great Delta--that name not
meaning the wide marshes of the actual mouth of the Mississippi, but
the fat accumulated soil of centuries caged in by that long,
incurving dam of the hills which, far inland from the current of the
swift water-way, begins at the head of the vast body of tangled Yazoo
lands, and drops down, pinching in at the base of a great "V," where
the bluffs converge near Vicksburg. These hills spreading out on
either side hold in their wide arms an empire, the richest and most
fertile land, though perhaps still the least known, of any to be
found in this America. They hold also a population little understood;
a people bold, undaunted, American. These arms of the hills hold also
a vast problem; the problem of black and white, less settled to-day
than it has been at any time these one hundred years.
Here in this land, more than two hundred miles in length and half as
much in width, Father Messasebe extends his fingers. Sluggish bayous
run across the waste as their fancy leads them, their current
depending upon the whim of the river, or perhaps on that of the
streams from the hill country which constitutes the great dam of the
Delta. The crooked Yazoo is marked on the maps as crossing almost
from the north to the south of this wilderness; yet the Yazoo can
scarce claim a bed all its own, for it passes through many ancient
bayous, and is fed by many of the old "hatchees" which the canoes of
the red man explored long ago. Upon one side of the Yazoo comes the
Sunflower, deep cut into the fathomless loam; yet sometimes the
Sunflower is reversed in current; and the Sunflower and the
Hushpuckenay may be one stream or two; and the latter may run as the
levees say, or as the floods dictate; while above them both, at the
head of the Yazoo, are bayous and "passes" which make a water-way
once continuous from the great river into its lesser parallel.
Messasebe sometimes flows peacefully through channels marked out for
him by man, yet this is but his whim; for a thousand years are as
naught to the Maker of Messasebe, and Messasebe therefore may bide
his time. But when the sport of the floods begins, and the currents
are reversed, and the streams hurry down with cross tributes from the
hills, and the wild waters have forgotten all control--then is when
Messasebe the Mighty grasps and clutches with his wide fingers, and
exults as of old in his wilderness!
Here in the heart of the Delta lay the Big House, a dot on the face
of things; having, however, its problems, personal or impersonal,
small and great. As John Eddring knew, there was trouble at the Big
House now. The hours passed slowly enough on the journey up the
turbulent flood of the great river. The railways were in places gone
for miles. All that Eddring could do was to get by steamer as nearly
as possible opposite the Big House plantation, and then win through
by small boat as best he might, across the overflow.
Even the most diligent makers of maps can not keep pace with Father
Messasebe. Along its southernmost course there are thousands of arms
and lakes and bayous where for a time the river ran until it tired,
and sought new scenes, new ways across the forests and cane-brakes.
The charts may show you that this river is the boundary of a certain
state; but who shall tell where or what that boundary may be? Who can
trace the _filum aquae_ of the most erratic and arrogant river
in all the world? The river is not now as it was ten years ago, nor
the same to-day as it will be ten years hence. Channel and cut-off
and island and main current go on in their juggling, and will do so
when generations shall have been forgotten. When the floods are out,
and when Messasebe is at his ancient game, there is no channel; there
is no map, no chart; there is a wilderness.
It was across this watery wilderness that John Eddring and his ally,
Captain Wilson, urged their way on the wildest journey ever known
even in the mad times of this great river. In a half-delirium which
set aside all reason and all reckoning, the bow of the sturdy boat
was driven against the down-coming seas, opening up one after another
of the channel marks; parting one after another of the massed groups
of shadows; churning round bend after bend, faster and faster, day
and night, until, far up in the welter of the new waters, she forsook
all charts and guides in the fury of her quest, and steamed forward
in her own fashion, black smoke belching continually from her flues,
and the pant of her fuming engine bidding fair to tear out the
inadequate covering of her sides. Pilot and captain let go all track
of the miles behind, looking only at those ahead. They got contempt
for ordinary dangers. So, pushing her way on, against and across
currents, shaving the bends, essaying every cut-off, the boat in her
strange race hurried on, running express for the purposes of justice,
and in the cause of the permanency of society.
At last they were far up the river, above the mouth of the Arkansas,
and opposite the great swamps which lie between the Arkansas and the
White upon the western side; so that now the greater portion of the
journey was well-nigh done. Eddring and Wilson, both haggard with
fatigue, stood on the bridge together and gazed out over the watery
prospect.
"This overflow means millions in losses to the planters in the
Delta," said Wilson. Eddring nodded.
"If levee-cutters started this flood up in Tullahoma, and the
planters ever get hold of them, I shouldn't think it would be exactly
healthy," added Wilson. "This means everything under water, clean to
the Yazoo. Looks like those fellows in there had had their share of
trouble lately."
"Nothing but trouble for four or five years," said Eddring. "Black
politics."
"Yes," said Wilson, sighing, "when Mr. Nigger gets the notion that
he'd like to be school superintendent or county treasurer, or
something of the kind, he's goin' to be mighty willin' to lay down
the hoe. I even think he would be willin', if he was asked, to let
the white man do the hoein', and him do the governin'." Eddring made
no answer, but gazed steadily out over the racing seas of tawny
water.
"At any rate, we'll soon be there now," said he at length. "How can I
pay you, Captain Wilson? How can I thank you?"
"Well," said Wilson, thoughtfully, "you might give me your note, the
way a friend of mine, Judge Osborn, down at New Orleans, did once.
That was in the war, you know, and Judge Osborn was a Confederate
colonel. He had to take passage on a river boat, and they got hung up
somewhere, and he and the Cap'n played a little poker for several
days. Colonel couldn't win nohow. At the end of the week he owed the
Cap'n four hundred thousand dollars--Confederate money, of course. At
last says he, 'See here, Cap'n, now I owe you this four hundred
thousand dollars, and I can't pay you by about one hundred and fifty
thousand dollars. Now, what am I going to go? Shall I give you my
note?' The Cap'n he looks at the Colonel, and says he, 'Ain't I
treated you all right, Colonel? Ain't I fed you good enough? Did I
ever do you any harm?' The Colonel 'lowed he had been treated all
right. 'Well, then,' says the Cap'n, 'what have you got against me?
What do you want to give me your note for? Take everything I've got;
take my boat, but please, sir, don't give me your note.' Now that's
the way I feel. I don't want your thanks, and I don't want your
note."
Eddring laughed frankly. "Well, Captain," said he, "let it go that
way. I won't give you my note, nor my thanks; but when you are in my
part of the world, come and live with me. After I get through with
these things in there, I shall see you again sometime. There are some
gentlemen of the Delta who will never forget Captain Wilson."
"Well," the gruff old Captain answered him, "I'll tell my little girl
about it, and I reckon I'll get my pay from her. But now I shall have
to be leavin' you before long," he resumed, as he studied again the
appearance of the country into which they had now come. "We're
raisin' the Old Bend landin', or the place where it ought to be."
"Wait a minute, Captain," said Eddring, "we'll need a skiff. Put in
two or three blankets and something for coffee, if you will. It looks
pretty rough in there, and we might not get through before dark."
Eddring swept a hand toward the submerged forest, which, shoreless
and all afloat, appeared upon their right, stretching away in every
direction as far as the eye could reach through the evening haze.
"I will fix you up the best I can," said Wilson. "But now, do you
know that country in yonder? Are you safe in going in?"
"I have hunted bear and deer all over there," said Eddring. "The main
current across this big bend ought to carry us inland into a bayou
that runs not far from the Big House. It is not more than twenty
miles or so to the plantation. If I can strike the course of the
Tippohatchee bayou, a few hours ought to take us through. If it comes
dark before we get there, we shall have to camp, that is all about
it. If a fellow tried to travel through in the night-time, he might
land at Greeneville, or Vicksburg, or anywhere else."
"Well," said Wilson, "if you must go, I won't try to stop you. I'll
have the skiff fixed up."
So, finally, after her journey up the river, the _Opelousas Queen_
rounded the thin neck of the long river bend, and with a hoarse growl
of relief, rather than of signal, slowed down and reversed, plowed up
the yellow waters into billows half-white, and so lay breathing
heavily, with just enough way to hold her against the current.
During the entire course of the journey, Eddring had not approached
either Madame Delchasse or Miss Lady in personal conversation, and
the latter had proved quite as willing to avoid him. Madame Delchasse
had taken great and voluble interest in matters about the boat, and
was often seen on deck. To her Eddring now sent his message, which
brought both the ladies to the lower deck, for the first time in two
days.
"What," cried madame, "we go in that leedle boat! _Ah, non!_ I stay by
the ship; also mademoiselle."
Miss Lady said nothing; she looked at the frail skiff, the turbulent
river, and the great woods beyond, already growing mysterious beneath
the veil of coming evening.
"Madame," said Eddring, "I can't argue about it. You must go." He
turned upon her the stern face of one who, having assumed all
responsibility, exacts in return implicit obedience.
"We shall drown," said madame.
Eddring turned gravely to the girl. "There is no danger. I can assure
you of that. I shall do my best. I am sorry that it is so. But we
must go. It is the only way to reach Colonel Blount's."
Upon Miss Lady's pale face there sat the look of one resigned with
fatalism to whatever issue might appear. She made no further speech,
but was the first to step into the boat. Madame Delchasse, still
grumbling, followed clumsily. Eddring helped them in, took up the
oars, and the two deck-hands, who had been holding the skiff,
clambered back aboard the _Queen_. Eddring settled himself to the
oars, and they cast off. The little skiff rocked, tossed, turned,
and headed toward the shore under the strong stroke of the oars.
Presently the set of the inbound current aided the oars, so that soon
they were at the fringe of the forest. Eddring rose and waved a hand
back to the watchers who were looking after them from the guards of
the steamer. The _Queen_ roared out a deep salute, and then the little
skiff passed out of sight into the wilderness.