they say, some time ago, after being in that muss at Washington, so I
reckon he’s running his trading store opposite the fort, again, and
drinking whisky. They call him ‘Drunken Sam.’ You’ve a right to your
opinion, but mine is that Houston’s fallen mighty low, for a senator
and a governor.”
“Low as he is, he’s Sam Houston, and he’ll rise again,” sternly
declared the Texan. “He’ll speak for himself, like he’s done before.”
“How’s the feeling on annexation to the United States, sir?” queried
the lieutenant. “There’s a report at New Orleans that President Jackson
has asked Houston to investigate with that in view.”
The Texan laughed easily.
“We’ve 20,000 Americans in Texas, sir, but we’re not aiming now to
cut loose from Mexico. We’ve pledged ourselves to Santa Anna and the
constitution of 1824. What we want is our state rights in the Mexican
republic, and Sam Houston to lead us.”
“How about Austin?”
“Steve Austin?” And the Texan’s eyes kindled. “I’m from the DeWitt
colony, myself, but the Austin colony was the first, and it’s the
keystone of the state. Moses Austin (he died in 1821) we call the
grand-daddy of Texas, and Steve his son’s our daddy. If it wasn’t for
the way he can talk sense with the government we’d all have been booted
out. But he’s worked hard for the people through ten years, and he
ought to tend to his own interests for a spell. We need Houston. He’s
six feet four and weighs according, and he can hold Texas steady when
she begins to rock. Well,” continued the Texan, as if done, “I’m for
Fort Gibson. Who’s coming along?”
“How?” demanded the lieutenant.
“There’s a skiff, and there’s the shore. This steamboat’s too plaguey
slow for anybody from Texas.”
“Do you know the way to Gibson from here?”
“Yes, sir. It’s nigh seventy miles by river but only some fifty by
land, mostly open country. We’ll likely meet up with Injuns who’ll keep
us straight.”
“Good! I’d rather be on dry land ashore than on mud in the middle of
the river,” said the lieutenant, briskly. “If you’re bound for Gibson
afoot, so are we. Want to come, Ernest?”
Ernest nodded.
“That your boy?” queried the Texan.
“Not exactly. But he’s looking for somebody at Gibson, too, and he’s in
a hurry.”
“So?” mused the Texan, surveying Ernest kindly. “He ’pears like good
Texas timber. If I can enlist him and Sam Houston both for that
country, we’ll make a big state of it, sure. That’s the talk. All
right. How many in your party?” he asked.
“Six, and the boy.”
“Anybody else for Fort Gibson?” invited the Texan, casting a glance
about.
But the crowd only laughed good-naturedly.
“Fishin’s too good hyar, stranger,” they asserted, in lazy manner.
The lieutenant hustled away. Presently he returned.
“Ready,” he announced. “Our baggage will go by the steamer.”
So they descended to the lower deck, where the little squad of soldier
recruits were waiting at the gunwale, with their muskets and haversacks.
“I’ve got enough for you, boy,” informed the lieutenant, to Ernest.
“Your trunk will stay with the rest of the stuff.” And while a couple
of roustabouts steadied the dug-out they all clambered cautiously in.
A recruit seized one paddle, the Texan seized another that was lying
in the bottom, and they shoved off without ceremony. The crowd above
gawked after them.
“Better let me take the bows,” quoth the Texan. “Then I can see. We
have to go a little careful. This river’s powerful full of snags.”
And it was fairly bristling with the jagged roots and branches of
tree-trunks, some projecting well above the swirling current, some
barely breaking the surface. Moreover, the dug-out, deep and narrow,
and smooth of hull, was decidedly cranky. The soldier in the stern
seemed not to be an expert paddler, and several times, in veering
sharply, the boat canted with alarming readiness.
“Steady, steady,” warned the Texan, when the men violently gripped the
gunwales. “I’ll do the steering. You lad in the stern, hold her.”
They were making for the high banks, and the current was carrying them
swiftly down, for this was the rapid side of the river. The laden
dug-out was hard to control. Now the steamboat was some distance above
them, and receding. On a sudden the Texan exclaimed with――
“Look out! Back her! Back her, I say!”
Even as he spoke the dug-out struck with a shock, hung, swerved,
tilted――a hidden snag underneath rose and fell and clung
vengefully――water began to flow in over the gunwale on the up-stream
side――several of the recruits sprang half to their feet, leaning.
“Steady! Steady!” bade the lieutenant――and amidst a general cry, over
she went. His heart in his mouth, Ernest pitched backward, and with a
splash the water closed above him. He shut his lips tight just in time.
As soon as he could right himself he kicked and paddled vigorously to
reach the surface. Up he blindly came, working hard; his head burst
the surface, and hit with a thump. Ouch! Clawing, he opened his eyes,
but for a minute he could not see. Everything was bleared and dark. He
panted, and paddling and kicking he wildly stared. Something hard was
close above him and surrounding him, like an umbrella. He stretched up
a hand, and explored. Wood! His knees hit a sharp edge, below water.
His fingers encountered a projection, near his head, and he hung on.
Now he knew. He was under the boat! He certainly was. The covering was
the bottom, inside, his knees had hit the gunwale and his fingers had
found the bow (or stern) where the gunwales came together in a point.
Yes, he was underneath the up-side-down dug-out, and he was floating
along with the current; at any rate, there was nothing but water under
him when he extended his feet as far as he dared.
The space was not pitchy dark, for some light filtered through the
water; soon he could dimly make things out. A bobbing object bumped
against him; it was a canvas haversack.
For the present he had plenty of room and plenty of air; and by kicking
occasionally, and hanging on with his fingers, he easily kept afloat.
But, jiminy, what a fix! He shouted, and his voice rang hollowly in his
ears, almost deafening him. Maybe he could dive from under. He took a
long breath and sank and kicked, doubling his neck――and bumped his head
again, on one gunwale, and his shins on the other. Huh! That didn’t
work, so in a panicky fear he came up inside to breathe. Shucks!
Now his feet dragged momentarily on a bar, but lost it. Once more he
tried to dive. He must get out from under. He sank, turned in a ball,
kicked and paddled and groped, pushed luckily with the soles of his
feet against the opposite gunwale――and away he slid, scraping his
back. He held his breath as long as he could; then out he popped, into
sunshine and freedom!
Paddling, and drinking the open air, he blinked, dazzled, until he
could gaze about. What good fortune that he had learned to swim!
However, he saw nothing but the surface of the water, and the two
shores, and the dug-out, bottom-side up and looking like a big narrow
turtle. Above him the river curved widely, and around the curve was the
steamboat, probably; but he was alone. Nobody had floated down with him.
He was nearer to the low shore than to the high, so he must have been
carried diagonally by a cross current. His feet touched bottom again,
and he started to wade, on tiptoe――when he suddenly bethought himself.
He struck out for the boat, held to it with one hand and groped under
it with the other, and hauled out the haversack. There might be
something in it to wear or eat, if the water had not spoiled all the
stuff. He felt somewhat like Robinson Crusoe; and pushing the heavy
haversack he headed for the nearer shore.
The water shoaled rapidly, until waist-high and knee-deep in the mud he
forged along, lugging the haversack (which weighed about a ton!), until
he emerged at what he had supposed was a low meadow. It had looked
like level grass; but he discovered that it wasn’t land, after all. It
was a regular swamp; with coarse cane and grass higher than his head,
and underfoot a squashy bog in which he sank to his knees again. And
the mosquitoes! And the damp heat! Shucks, and twice shucks! But there
were no two ways, now. He toiled manfully on, lugging the precious
haversack, shoving through the jungle, plumping in the soft boggy turf,
not able to see a thing except the cane and grasses, and the mosquitoes
that ate him, with the sun boiling him and his feet like lead.
It seemed to be a tremendously wide swamp. He kept a sharp lookout
for snakes, and tried his best to make a bee-line by sighting on some
tree-tops that, from occasional open spots, he could glimpse far
before. His breath came in gasps, his heart thumped, the mosquitoes and
the heat were awful, and the perspiration simply poured down his face.
He was leaving the river behind, but when he got out of the swamp, then
where would he be?
Hurrah! He guessed that he was reaching the edge, at last. The
bogginess was not so deep, and the jungle not so high. His head began
to stick above the rushes; his shoulders followed, and he could see
about him.
The trees were plain: a large timber-patch, across a short stretch
of level prairie. Out of the swamp and upon the hard prairie Ernest
staggered; and down he sank, in the hot sun, gasping. A sorry sight he
was, too: a bare-headed boy (he had lost his hat, of course), in blue
flannel shirt and gray jeans trousers and coarse cowhide shoes, soaked
to the skin and muddy to the waist. He was glad to drop the haversack
and wipe his face with his wet bandanna handkerchief. Then he took off
his shoes and socks, wrung his socks as free as he could of mud and
water, emptied his shoes, put socks and shoes on again; and after a
breathing space decided to try for the shade of the trees.
With a grunt he picked up the haversack (which he would investigate
later), and plodded on. It was another long pull to the trees, for he
was pretty weak in the knees. But he made it, without a stop; and as he
crossed the border, from sun to shade, how good the coolness felt!
The timber patch was quiet, except for the twitter of birds. Once, as
he wandered curiously forward, seeking the best seat so as to rest
and examine the haversack, he heard a quick rustle and a series of
thumps, as if he had disturbed a deer; but he did not see the deer.
Apparently he had the timber all to himself. This was rather fun,
exploring――especially if the haversack contained something to eat. But
the undergrowth was thick, and there were still some mosquitoes; and
the proper place in which to sit down would be an open space warmed by
the sun. The shade was almost too cool. After he had rested and dried
off, and perhaps had a bite to eat, he would start out and look for the
steamboat, up the river. Or maybe he could find the lieutenant, who
might be looking for _him_.
An open space appeared ahead. Ernest made for it, broke through into
it――and abruptly stopped short, staring and hugging his haversack. The
first thing that his quick eyes saw was a big Indian, directly opposite.
The Indian was sitting down, cross-legged. He was a frightfully big
Indian――quite the biggest Indian imaginable. He wore dark whiskers,
covering his chin, but he was an Indian, sure; for he had on a gaily
figured, dirty calico hunting-shirt, open at the throat so that his
hairy chest showed, and buckskin trousers, and embroidered moccasins,
and around his large head was wound a strip of red cloth, in several
folds, turban fashion. His hair appeared to hang in a pig-tail, or
braided queue, down his back. A quiver of feathered arrows lay beside
him, and a short strung bow was across his knees.
He sat without a movement, scarcely winking his eyes, which, bold and
steady and very blue, surveyed Ernest, while Ernest surveyed him.
Ernest had the feeling that this Indian had seen him first; and there,
half in sun and half in shade under the tree at the clearing’s edge,
had waited for him to approach.
“Who are you, boy?” The Indian had spoken, in a deep, resonant
voice――and he had spoken good English.
“My name is Ernest Merrill,” stammered Ernest, standing stock still.
“Where are you from?”
“From Cincinnati, Ohio.”
“How came you here?”
“I was travelling on a steamboat up the Arkansas River, and the
steamboat stuck on a mud-bar, so I got off to walk the rest of the way.”
“Where are you going?”
“Fort Gibson.”
“What do you want at Fort Gibson?”
“My uncle. He sent for me.”
“Who is your uncle?”
“He’s Sergeant John Andrews, in the United States army.”
“Who is with you?”
“N-nobody,” faltered Ernest, determined to be honest. “There were
Lieutenant Neal and some soldiers and a Texan, but the dug-out capsized
with us and I got under it and lost ’em. They must be around somewhere,
though,” he added, as a warning.
“Have you no parents?”
“Yes, sir; I’ve my mother, but she’s sick and my uncle was to take me
till she’s well. He’s going to be discharged pretty soon.”
Ernest could no longer keep himself from trembling. His knees were _so_
wobbly, and his stomach _so_ empty, and the haversack _so_ heavy; and
he was alone, and the Indian was very big. The Indian seemed to notice
the symptoms. He smiled――a beautiful but sad smile――and beckoned with a
great fore-finger.
“Come here, my boy,” he bade, in his fine resonant voice. “Fear
nothing. You are as safe with me as in your mother’s lap.” And he
added, with a dignified gesture of his open hand: “I am Sam Houston.”
II
ON THE ROAD TO TEXAS
Ernest went forward, across the little park. Now he was not a particle
afraid. Something in the man’s big finger and steady voice put him at
his ease. Besides, this was no Indian; it was Sam Houston in Indian
clothes. Truly, an astonishing meeting, but a happy one. So Ernest went
forward.
“What have you there, my boy?” asked Sam Houston, referring to the
haversack.
“It’s a knapsack,” replied Ernest. “I found it under the boat.”
“Whom does it belong to?”
“One of the soldiers. He lost it when the boat capsized; so I took it
with me.”
“Where are the soldiers?”
“I don’t know. I guess they swam ashore while I was floating down.”
“Let me see.”
Ernest passed the haversack to him, and squatted down while Sam Houston
unbuckled the flap. After all, there wasn’t much of any use in the
haversack: only two pairs of socks, and a suit of underclothing, and a
razor and strop, and a “housewife” or little case containing needles
and thread, and several newspapers, and a tin plate and steel knife
and fork and pewter spoon, and some soggy crackers or hardtack, and
a cotton _night-cap_. None of the clothing would fit Ernest. The
haversack had weighed so much because it was water-soaked.
Sam Houston stowed everything carefully back again, and buckled the
flap.
“We will restore this to the Government when we get to Fort Gibson,” he
said. “It is not yours or mine. Can you travel? Come.” And he stood. “I
have provision. You can eat as you go. Your uncle is no longer at the
cantonment, but never mind. Sam Houston will watch over you.”
His uncle “no longer at the cantonment!” Why? And where, then? Ernest’s
heart sank.
“He has been transferred,” quoth Sam Houston, briefly, as he strode,
carrying the haversack, Ernest trotting in the wake of his great
strides.
Ernest asked no further. He felt that he was in good hands, and that
Sam Houston knew what was to be done.
In a few minutes they arrived at the edge of the timber, where a small,
bob-tailed pony was tethered to a tree. The pony nickered at their
approach. From the tree Sam Houston took down the carcass of a deer,
hanging there. He laid it over the horse’s haunches and tied it fast.
He slung his quiver at his thigh, and the haversack from the saddle,
against the horse’s side. The pony did indeed seem _very_ small; but
after handing Ernest a strip of dried meat, extracted from the bosom of
his shirt, and saying, “Chew on this, my boy,” Sam Houston untied the
animal, lifted Ernest astride the deer carcass behind the rude saddle,
and confidently mounted, himself.
Thus they rode away, at an easy amble, Ernest perched high and hanging
tight, his legs and the legs of the deer dangling.
Up hill and down, through a rolling prairie land of rich grass and
occasional brush and trees, they rode; they saw deer and wild turkeys,
and crossed several trails; and at sunset they halted, by a creek, to
spend the night. They chewed more of the dried meat, Sam Houston cut
some dried grass, spread it, and from the saddle untied a blanket, and
laid it out.
“There is our bed, yours and mine,” he said. “Some day you will
remember that you shared the couch of Sam Houston.”
Ernest snuggled beside him, and slept soundly until daybreak. After a
scanty breakfast they rode on.
It probably was about ten o’clock when, as they topped a little rise,
Ernest’s friend pointed ahead.
“Yonder is our destination,” he said, solemnly――and using the
high-sounding language of which he evidently was fond. “There lies the
cantonment of Fort Gibson; and across the stream from it waits the
humble habitation of Sam Houston.”
Slightly to the south of west showed a river, marked by its line of
trees. That was the Arkansas. From the north another river joined it;
and on the hither shore of this river, a few miles above its mouth, was
a group of buildings, occupying a lovely placid site in the sunny open.
Across the wide grassy prairie that stretched to the river ambled the
pony, with its double burden――Ernest holding fast and peering.
Soon he could make out the Stars and Stripes floating on the breeze,
from its tall flag-staff. Several Indians――real Indians――were met, on
their ponies. They were dressed much like Sam Houston; some carried
bows, some muskets. With them Sam Houston exchanged a dignified word
of greeting. And presently the fort itself was reached――but it did not
appear to be much of a fort; just a small collection of low, shabby
wooden buildings around a parade-ground.
Ernest was disappointed. However, he did not waste many moments by
criticizing his port. As the pony entered the parade-ground, apparently
being directed straight for the quarters of the commanding officer
himself, almost the first white persons that Ernest saw were young
Lieutenant Neal, and the tall Texan, crossing the parade-ground
together. And they had seen him.
With a little shout of joy, off from the deer carcass tumbled Ernest,
and ran forward. The lieutenant and Mr. Carroll met him half way, and
there was a great shaking of hands.
“Are you all here?” demanded Ernest, breathless. “I am. Sam Houston
brought me.”
“Great Cæsar! Is that Sam Houston?” exclaimed the Texan. “With that
Cherokee dress and those whiskers on his chin I didn’t know him. Bless
my heart, but I’m glad to see you! Where did you go to? You disappeared
completely. We――――”
“I was under the boat,” explained Ernest.
“Is that so! We saw the boat but we didn’t sight you. We swam and waded
to the high bank――――”
“I landed on the other side; the low side,” explained Ernest. “Quite a
way down, though. I couldn’t get out from under the boat, at first.”
“Lucky you did get out,” said the lieutenant, soberly. “We never
thought of _that_. Well, we searched along the bank, the best we could;
then we told some Indians to keep a watch-out for you, and borrowed
some horses from them and rode on to the fort. Got here about midnight.”
“My uncle isn’t here any more, Mr. Houston says,” faltered Ernest, his
spirits dropping.
“No, he isn’t, Ernest,” admitted the lieutenant. “He’s been gone about
two weeks. But never mind. You’ll be cared for. Now let’s speak with
General Houston a minute.”
General Houston, as the lieutenant had entitled him, was sitting
with dignified patience on his bob-tailed pony, as if waiting for
recognition. Followed by Ernest, the lieutenant and the Texan stepped
over to him.
“I am Lieutenant Neal, sir,” addressed the lieutenant. “If I mistake
not, I have the honor of addressing General Houston.”
“The same, sir,” bowed the general.
“Allow me to present Mr. Carroll, recently from Texas. You have done a
great service, sir, in restoring to his friends this boy, with whom I
travelled from the Mississippi River, and who I feared had been lost by
an untimely accident.”
“It is one of the few pleasures of my life, sir,” responded the
general. “I have informed him that Sergeant John Andrews, his uncle,
is no longer stationed at Fort Gibson. Does the further disposal of the
boy rest with you or with me?”
“I will take charge of him, and thank you,” answered the lieutenant.
“Then I will consign to you this haversack, also, which is the property
of the Government,” continued the general. “Good-by, sirs. Good-by, my
boy. Shall you ever need a friend, you will find him in Sam Houston.”
He gravely eyed the Texan. “From Texas, eh? I will speak with you anon,
sir.” He touched his pony with his heel, and turning aside ambled away.
“A ruined man,” mused the lieutenant, gazing after. “Think of him, as
once a congressman, and governor of a state! I fear his violent habits
have weighted him down beyond recall.”
“A great character struggling to free itself again,” corrected the
Texan. “There is nothing half-way about Sam Houston. Just now he’s
like a wounded b’ar, that bites its own flesh and crawls about seeking
healing yarbs. But wait till he’s recovered. Why,” added the Texan,
“in his Injun clothes, on a bob-tail hoss, he rides as if he were in
broadcloth on a thoroughbred!”
And Ernest decided that the Texan was right.
The next thing on the program, for Ernest, was of course a change of
clothes. In the lieutenant’s room he was fitted out, after a fashion;
and although the clothes were rather large, they were clean. The
steamboat with his trunk had not arrived yet. As like as not she was
still stuck on the bar.
So Ernest, while awaiting word of his uncle the sergeant, who had been
sent out with a scouting detail across country clear to Cantonment
Leavenworth in what is to-day Kansas, stayed at Fort Gibson. It was
likely, according to the lieutenant, that the sergeant would get
his discharge at Leavenworth. Well, what then? Would he come back?
Scarcely. Would he send for Ernest to meet him? Nobody seemed to know.
Therefore Ernest wrote a letter――a long, long letter――to his mother,
and settled down to do the best that he could. He was such a handy
lad that he felt he could earn his way; and as he was willing to do
anything, he kept very busy performing little jobs for Lieutenant Neal
and the other officers.
Fort Gibson, or Cantonment Gibson (a cantonment being deemed not so
permanent as a fort), located here on the east bank of the Grand
River a few miles above the Arkansas, in the southwest corner of the
United States possessions, was only a small post established among the
Cherokee, Creek and Choctaw Indians of the Indian Country. Of these,
the Cherokees were the most numerous around the post. They had their
principal village, named Tah-lon-tees-kee, down the Arkansas about
thirty miles; they lived in quite a civilized fashion, with their
rulers and councils, and comfortable houses, and well-cultivated farms.
White people had married into the tribe, and they even kept slaves.
Sam Houston was a Cherokee; he had been adopted by the old head chief
John Jolly――whose Indian name was Oo-loo-te-kah; and took part in the
councils that made the laws, and was given the name Col-lon-neh, which
meant The Raven. He was one of the few white men who could speak the
Cherokee language.
But lately Sam Houston had left the Cherokee town of Tah-lon-tees-kee;
he had married a half-Cherokee woman named Tyania Rodgers, and with her
had settled across the Grand River opposite Fort Gibson, where he had
taken up land, built a log house, and was farming and trading.
Ernest saw him frequently, at the post and also across the river.
There was something mysterious about Sam Houston. Nobody appeared to
understand what had got into him, except that he had been disappointed
in his marriage back in Tennessee, and had separated from his wife
there, resigned his governorship of Tennessee, and had fled as far as
he could from all his white acquaintances. He never breathed a syllable
about the cause of his trouble; people respected him for that. He never
permitted a word to be uttered blaming his first wife; and people
respected him for that. He “took his medicine,” as the saying was. But
no one could respect his habits, especially his drunkenness.