REMEMBER, if you go a-wandering, the road will break your heart. It
is sometimes like a woman, caressing and stabbing at once. It is a
mystery, this quality of the road. I write, not to explain, but to
warn, and to give the treatment. Comradeship and hospitality are
opiates most often at hand.
I remember when I encountered the out-poured welcome of an Old
Testament Patriarch, a praying section boss in a gray log village, one
Monday evening in north Florida. He looked at me long. He sensed my
depression. He made me his seventh son.
He sent his family about to announce my lecture in the schoolhouse
on “The Value of Poetry.” Enough apple-cheeked maidens, sad mothers,
and wriggling, large-eyed urchins assembled to give an unconscious
demonstration of the theme.
The little lamp spluttered. The windows rattled. Two babies cried.
Everybody assumed that lectures were delightful, miserable, and
important. The woman on the back seat nursed her baby, reducing the
noise one-third. When I was through shouting, they passed the hat.
I felt sure I had carried my point. Poetry was eighty-three cents
valuable, a good deal for that place. And the sons of the Patriarch
were the main contributors, for before the event he had thunderously
exhorted them to be generous. I should not have taken the money? But
that was before I had a good grip on my rule.
The Patriarch was kept away by a neighbor who had been seized with fits
on Sunday, while fishing. The neighbor though mending physically, was
in a state of apprehension. He demanded, with strong crying and tears,
that the Patriarch pray with him. Late in the evening, as we were about
the hearth, recovering from the lecture, my host returned from the
sinner’s bed, the pride of priesthood in his step. He had established
a contrite heart in his brother, though all the while frank with him
about the doubtful efficacy of prayer in healing a body visited with
just wrath.
Who would not have loved the six sons, when, at the Patriarch’s
command, they drew into a circle around the family altar, with their
small sister, and the gentle mother with her babe at her breast? It
was an achievement to put the look of prayer into such flushed, wilful
faces as those boys displayed. They followed their father with the
devotion of an Ironside regiment as he lifted up his voice singing “The
Son of God goes forth to War.” They rolled out other strenuous hymns.
I thought they would sing through the book. I looked at the mother.
I thanked God for her. She was the only woman in Florida who could
cook. And her voice was honey. Her breast was ivory. The child was a
pearl. Her whole aspect had the age and the youth of one of De Forest
Brush’s austere American madonnas. The scripture lesson, selected not
by chance, covered the adventures of Jacob at Bethel.
We afterwards knelt on the pine floor, our heads in the seats of the
chairs. I peeped and observed the Patriarch with his chair almost in
the fireplace. He ignored the heat. He shouted the name of the smallest
boy, who answered the roll-call by praying: “Now I lay me down to
sleep.” The father megaphoned for the next, and the next, with a like
response. He called the girl’s name, but in a still small voice she
lisped the Lord’s Prayer. As the older boys were reached, the prayers
became individual, but containing fragments of “Now I lay me.” The
mother petitioned for the soul of the youngest boy, not yet in a state
of grace, for a sick cousin, and many a neighborhood cause. The father
prayed twenty minutes, while the chair smoked. I forgot the chair at
last when he voiced the petition that the stranger in the gates might
have visitations on his lonely road, like Jacob at Bethel. Then a
great appeal went up the chimney that the whole assembly might bear
abundantly the fruits of the spirit. The fire leaped for joy. I knew
that when the prayer appeared before the throne, it was still a tongue
of flame.
* * * * *
Next morning I spent about seventy cents lecture money on a railway
ticket, and tried to sleep past my destination, but the conductor woke
me. He put me off in the Okefenokee swamp, just inside the Georgia
line. The waters had more brass-bespangled ooze than in mid-Florida;
the marsh weeds beneath were lustrous red. I crossed an interminable
trestle over the Suwannee River. A fidgety bird was scolding from
tie to tie. If the sky had been turned over and the azure boiled to
a spoonful, you would have had the intense blue with which he was
painted. If the caldron had been filled with sad clouds, and boiled to
a black lump, you would have had my heart. Ungrateful, I had forgotten
the Patriarch. I was lonely for I knew not what; maybe for my friend
Edward Broderick, who had walked with me through central Florida, and
had been called to New York by the industrial tyranny which the steel
rails represented even here.
We two had taken the path beside the railway in the regions of Sanford
and Tampa, walking in loose sand white as salt. An orange grove in
twilight had been a sky of little moons. We had eaten not many oranges.
They are expensive there. But we had stolen the souls of all we passed,
and so had spoiled them for their owners. It had been an exquisite
revenge.
We had seen swamps of parched palmettos set afire by wood-burning
locomotives whose volcanic smoke-stacks are squat and wide, like those
on the engines in grandmother’s third reader.
We had met Mr. Terrapin, Mr. Owl, Mrs. Cow, and Master Calf, all of
them carved by the train-wheels, Mr. Buzzard sighing beside them. We
had met Mr. Pig again at the cracker’s table, cooked by last year’s
forest-fire, run over by last year’s train. But what had it mattered?
For we together had had ears for the mocking-bird, and eyes for the
moss-hung live oaks that mourn above the brown swamp waters.
We had met few men afoot, only two professional tramps, yet the path by
the railway was clearly marked. Some Florida poet must celebrate the
Roman directness of the railways embanked six feet above the swamp,
going everywhere in regions that have no wagon-roads.
But wherever in our land there is a railway, there is a little path
clinging to the embankment holding the United States in a network as
real as that of the rolled steel,--a path wrought by the foot of the
unsubdued. This path wanders back through history till it encounters
Tramp Columbus, Tramp Dante, Tramp St. Francis, Tramp Buddha, and the
rest of our masters.
All this we talked of nobly, even grandiloquently, but now I walked
alone, ignoring the beautiful turpentine forests of Georgia and the
sometime accepted merits of a quest for the Grail, the Gleam, or the
Dark Tower. Reaching Fargo about one o’clock I attempted to telegraph
for money to take me home, beaten. It was not a money-order office, and
thirteen cents would not have covered the necessary business details.
Forced to make the best of things, I spent all upon ginger-snaps at
the combination grocery-store and railway-station. I shared them with
a drummer waiting for the freight, who had the figure of Falstaff, and
the mustaches of Napoleon third. I did not realize at that time, that
by getting myself penniless I was inviting good luck.
After a dreary while, the local freight going to Valdosta came in.
Napoleon advanced to capture a ride. A conductor and an inspector were
on the platform. He attacked them with cigars. He indulged freely in
friendly swearing and slapping on the back. He showed credentials,
printed and written. He did not want to wait three hours for the
passenger train in that much-to-be-condemned town. His cigars were
refused, his papers returned. He took the path to the lumberman’s
hotel. His defeat appeared to be the inspector’s doing.
That obstinate inspector wore a gray stubble beard and a collar chewed
by many laundries. He was encompassed in a black garment of state that
can be described as a temperance overcoat. He needed only a bulging
umbrella and a nose like a pump-spout to resemble the caricatures of
the Prohibition Party that appeared in _Puck_ when St. John ran for
President.
I showed him all my baggage carried in an oil-cloth wrapper in my
breast pocket: a blue bandanna, a comb, a little shaving mirror, a
tooth-brush, a razor, and a piece of soap. “These,” I said, “are my
credentials.”
Also I showed a little package of tracts in rhyme I was distributing to
the best people: _The Wings of the Morning_, or _The Tree of Laughing
Bells_.[1] I hinted he might become the possessor of one. I drew his
attention to the fact that there was no purse in the exhibit. I divided
my last four ginger-snaps with him. I showed him a letter commending me
to all pious souls from a leading religious worker in New York, Charles
F. Powlison.
_Soon we were thundering away to Valdosta!_ Mr. Temperance climbed to
the observation chair in the little box at the top of the caboose,
alternately puzzling over my _Wings of the Morning_,[2] and looking
out. The caboose bumped like a farm-wagon on a frozen road. The
pine-burning stove roared. The negro Adonis on the wood-pile had gold
in his teeth. He had eyes like dark jewels set in white marble, and he
polished lanterns as black as himself.
“By Jove,” I said. “That’s the handsomest bit of lacquer this side of
the Metropolitan Museum.”
“’Sh,” said Conductor Roundface, sobering himself. “You will queer
yourself with the old man. He wouldn’t let that drummer on because _he_
swore.”
The old man came down. I bridled my profane tongue while he lectured
the conductor on the necessity for more interest in the Georgia
public schools, and the beauty of total abstinence, and, at last, the
Japanese situation. This is a condensed translation of his speech:
“I was on the side of the Russians all through the Russo-Japanese
war. My friends said, ‘Hooray for Japan.’ But I say a Japanese is a
nigger. I have never seen one, but I have seen their pictures. The
Lord intended people to stay where they were put. We ought to have
trade, but no immigration. Chinese belong to China. They are adapted
to the Chinese climate. Niggers belong to Africa. They are adapted to
the African climate. Americans belong to America. They are adapted to
the American climate. Why, the mixing that is going on is something
scandalous. I had a nigger working for me once that was half-Spaniard
and half-Indian. There are just a few white people, and more mulattoes
every day. The white people ought to keep their blood pure. Russians
are white people. Germans, English, and Americans are white people.
French people are niggers. Dagoes are niggers. Jews are niggers. All
people are niggers but just these four. There is going to be a big war
in two or three years between all the white people and all the niggers.
The niggers are going to combine and force a fight, Japan in the lead.”
We reached Valdosta after dark. Conductor and inspector exchanged with
me most civil good-bys. Their hospitality had been nepenthe for my poor
broken heart. I reconciled myself to sitting in front of the station
fireplace all night. I thought my nearest friend was at Macon, one
hundred and fifty miles north; a gay cavalier who had read Omar Khayyam
with me in college.
Just then an immense, angular, red-haired man sat down in front
of the fire. He might have been the prodigal son of some Yankee
farmer-statesman. He threw his arms around me, and though I had never
seen him before, the Brotherhood of Man was established at once. He
cast an empty bottle into the wood-box. He produced another. I would
not drink. He poured down one-half of it. It snorted like dish-water
going into the sink. He said: “That’s right. Don’t drink. This is
the first time I ever drank. I have been on a soak two weeks. You see
I was in Texas a long time, and went broke. I don’t know how I got
here.” “Well,” I said, “we have this fire till they run us out. Enjoy
yourself.”
He wept. “I don’t deserve to enjoy anything. Anybody that’s made a fool
of himself as I have done. I wish I were in Vermont where my wife and
babies are buried. Somebody wrote me they were dead and buried just
when I went broke.”
Thereafter he was merry. “There was a man in Vermont I didn’t like who
kept a fire like this. I went to see him every evening because I liked
his fire. He would study and I would smoke.”
He took out two dimes. “Say, that’s my last money. Let’s buy two
tickets to the next station and get off and shoot up the town.”
A hollow-eyed little man of middle age, grimy like a coal-miner, sat
down on the other side of Mr. Vermont. He said he had been flagging
trains for so long he could not tell when he began. He said he must
wait three hours for a friend. He declined the bottle. He listened to
Mr. Vermont’s story, told with variations. He put his chin into his
hands, his elbows on his knees, and slept. Vermont threw himself on
top of the bent back, his face wrapped in his arms, like a school-boy
asleep on his desk-lid. Mr. Flagman slowly awoke, and cast off his
brother, and slept again. Cautiously Vermont waited, to resume his
pillow in a quarter of an hour, and be again cast off.
Mr. Flagman sat up. I asked him if there was a train for Macon going
soon. He said: “The through freight is making up now.” He gave me the
conductor’s name. I asked if there was any one about who could write me
a pass to Macon. He said, “The pay car has just come in, and Mr. Grady
can give you a pass if he wants to.” I went out to the tracks.
From a little window at the end of the car Mr. Grady was paying the
interminable sons of Ham, who emerged from the African night, climbed
the steps, received their envelopes, and slunk down the steps into the
African night.
At last I showed Mr. Grady my letter from Charles F. Powlison. Mr.
Grady did not appear to be of a religious turn. I asked him permission
to ride to Macon in the caboose of the freight, going out at one
o’clock. I assured him it was beneath my dignity to crawl into the
box-car, or patronize the blind baggage, and I was tired of walking in
swamp. Mr. Grady asked, “Are you an official of the road?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what you ask is impossible, sir.”
“Oh, my dear Mr. Grady, it is not impossible--”
“I am glad to have met you, sir. Good-night, sir,” and Mr. Grady had
shut the window.
There was the smash, clang, and thud of making up a train. A negro
guided me to the lantern of a freight conductor. The conductor had
the lean frame, the tight jaw, the fox nose, the Chinese skin of a
card-shark. He would have made a name for himself on the Spanish Main,
some centuries since, by the cool way he would have snatched jewels
from ladies’ ears and smiled when they bled. He did not smile now. He
gripped his lantern like a cutlass, and the cars groaned. They were
gentlemen in armor compelled to walk the plank by this pirate with the
apple-green eyes. We will call him Mr. Shark.
I put my pious letter into my pocket. “Mr. Shark, I would like to
ride to Macon in the caboose.” Mr. Shark thrust his lantern under
my hat-brim. I had no collar, but was not ashamed of that. He said,
“I have met men like you before.” He turned down the track shouting
orders. I jumped in front of him. I said, “You are mistaken. You have
not met a man like me before. I am the goods. I am the wise boy from
New York. I have been walking in every swamp in Florida, eating dead
pig for breakfast, water-moccasins for lunch, alligators for dinner. I
would like to tell you my adventures.”
Mr. Shark ignored me, and went on persecuting the train.
Valdosta was a depot in the midst of darkness. I hated the darkness. I
went into the depot. Vermont was offering Flagman the bottle. He drank.
Flagman asked me: “Can’t you make it?”
“No. Grady turned me down. And the conductor turned me down.”
Mr. Flagman said, “The sure way to ride in a caboose like a gentleman
is to ask the conductor like he is a gentleman, and everybody else
is a gentleman, and when he turns you down, ask him again like a
gentleman.” And much more with that refrain. It was wisdom lightly
given, profounder than it seemed. Let us remember the tired flagman,
and engrave the substance of his saying on our souls.
I sought the pirate again. I took off my hat. I bowed like Don Cæsar De
Bazan, but gravely. “I ask you, just as one gentleman to another, to
take me to Macon. I have friends in Macon.”
Mr. Shark showed a pale streak of smile. “Come around at one o’clock.”
My “Thank you” was drowned by a late passenger. It came from Fargo, for
Napoleon III dismounted. He said: “Hello. Where are you going, boy?”
“I am just taking the caboose of the through freight for Macon. But I
have a few minutes.”
“How the devil did you get here, sir?” I told him the story in brief.
We were in front of the fire now. “How are you going to make this next
train? I would like to go with you.”
I could not tell whether he meant it or not. Right beside us Mr.
Flagman was asleep for all night, with his elbows on his knees, his
chin in his hands. Stretched above Flagman’s back was Mr. Vermont, like
a school-boy asleep on his desk. I said, “Do you see the gentleman on
the bottom of the pile? He is the Grand Lama of Cabooseville. You have
to ask him for the password. The man on top is the sublime sub-Lama.”
Napoleon looked dubiously at them, and the two bottles in the wood-box.
He gave me good words of farewell, finishing with mock-gravity: “Of
course I respect you, sir, in not giving the password without orders
from your superior, sir.”
And now I boarded the caboose, hurrying to surprise the Macon cavalier.
He expected me in three weeks, walking. But the caboose did one hundred
and fifty miles in thirteen hours, and all the way my heart spun like
a glorified musical top. Alas, this is a tale of drink. I filled the
coffee-pot and drained it an infinite number of times, all because my
poor broken heart was healed. The stove was the only person in the
world out of humor. He was mad because his feet were nailed to the
floor. He tried to spill the coffee, and screamed, “Now you’ve done
it” every time we rounded a curve. The caboose-door slammed open every
seven minutes, Shark and his white man and his negro rushing in from
their all-night work for refreshment.
The manner of serving coffee in a caboose is this: there are three
tin cups for the white men. The negro can chew sugar-cane, or steal
a drink when we do not look. There is a tin box of sugar. If one is
serving Mr. Shark, one shakes a great deal of sugar into the cup, and
more down one’s sleeve, and into one’s shoes and about the rocking
floor. One becomes sprinkled like a doughnut, newly-fried, and fragrant
with splashed coffee. The cinders that come in on the breath of the
shrieking night cling to the person. But if you are serving Mr. Shark
you do not mind these things. You pour his drink, you eat his bread and
cheese, thanking him from the bottom of your stomach, not having eaten
anything since the ginger-snaps of long ago. You solemnly touch your
cup to his, as you sit with him on the red disembowelled car cushions,
with the moss gushing out. You wish him the treasure-heaps of Aladdin
or a racing stable in Ireland, whichever he pleases.
Let all the readers of this tale who hope to become Gentlemen of the
Road take off collars and cuffs, throw their purses into the ditch,
break their china, and drink their coffee from tinware to the health
of Mr. Shark, our friend with the apple-green eyes. Yea, my wanderers,
the cure for the broken heart is gratitude to the gentleman you would
hate, if you had your collar on or your purse in your pocket when you
met him. Though there was heavy betting against him, he becomes the
Hero in a whirlwind finish. Patriarch and Flagman disputing for second,
decision for Flagman.