THE IMMIGRANT WAGON.
"THERE he is!" cried Mrs. Willard; and she turned pale.
It was early morning. A heavy mist enveloped the river. But her eager
eyes, piercing the fog-curtain, recognized, in the foremost passenger
descending from the steamer, the young man who had so nobly volunteered
to search for her husband.
The three days the stranger had been absent were weary, anxious days to
her. Not a boat touched at the landing, even in the darkness, but she
heard the signal bell—hopingly, forebodingly watching for tidings of
her lost companion.
But, impatient as she had been to hear from the young man, now that he
had arrived, she trembled at his approach. Ah, how much, at some solemn
crisis, is crowded into a brief interval! Was she a widow, and her sons
without a father? A word now, and that awful question would be settled.
The young man walked towards the hotel slowly and gravely. With womanly
quickness, she saw that he came with an unwelcome message, else his
step would be eager and light.
"Well?" she whispered, inquiringly, as he entered.
"Madam," said he,—and he paused, as if deliberating how to word what he
had to communicate,—"I have learned nothing favorable or unfavorable.
Nothing has been seen of Mr. Willard at either of the landings. Still
he may have been rescued from the water, and carried to some obscure
cabin among the bluffs; or possibly a steamer may have taken him
aboard. I have, however, sent back to Dunleith, to have posters printed
describing Mr. Willard, and calling for information concerning him.
A copy will be put up in every conspicuous place, circulated on the
steamers, and among the settlers along shore. I see no alternative but
to await the effect of the handbills."
Meanwhile, the whole family, entering the room, had clustered about
their new friend, breathlessly listening.
Slightly aside was aunt Esther, her face partially averted, her lips
firmly knit together, and her countenance worried, yet resolute.
Ferdinand leaned against the door-casing, in a pensive, thoughtful
attitude, weighing each sentence freighted with so much significance.
Georgie, his hand clasped in his mother's, gazed into her face, as if
more troubled for her than aught else.
The Hunchback had drawn a chair to the plain centre-table occupying the
middle of the apartment, his sharp elbows resting on the stand, his
great head propped on his weak little hands.
"I am sure, sir," said aunt Esther, breaking the terrible silence that
had settled on them all, struck dumb as they were by the blow that had
smitten the husband and father from their side,—"I am sure, sir, that
we are greatly obliged." But she did not finish the acknowledgment; her
words choked her, and simultaneously they all began to sob.
"Madam," said the young man, addressing Mrs. Willard, "may I ask if you
will deem it best to return east immediately?"
"I could not," she faltered, "while my poor husband's fate is
unsettled."
"But," he gently suggested, "to board long at this hotel would be very
expensive. You mentioned that Mr. Willard had the money with him. Will
you be offended if I inquire what your condition is financially?"
"Fortunately," was the reply, "I persuaded Mr. Willard, on reaching the
boat, to let me take charge of a portion of the funds. Here is what he
handed me." And she counted from her purse fifty-five dollars.
"A sorry amount for a family," was the response. "Now, I have been
revolving this subject, and have a plan to propose. You would scarcely
wish to go back to New England at present; that is plain. And had you
means, it would be imprudent to tarry here. There have been copious
rains this season. The Mississippi, therefore, overflowed wide tracts
of land. The freshet is now subsiding, leaving the submerged vegetation
exposed to the sun. This will create sickness; and here, shut in among
these bluffs, the air is, you have reason to know, intensely hot, so
that the miasma is developed more rapidly, and acts with a deadlier
influence on the system. Remain here two weeks, or perhaps even one,
and some of you will be down with ague and fever, or some other bilious
disease. Now, my idea is that you had better go off upon the healthful
prairies, away from the miasma of the river, among the large-hearted
prairie farmers, take up land, and set to work improving it while
waiting to hear from your husband. How does this strike 'you?'" he
inquired, turning to aunt Esther.
"This is my sister, Miss Esther Willard. She disapproved of our removal
west, and only came out to accompany us on the road," explained Mrs.
Willard.
"Then she does not fancy the frontier?"
"No."
"Her opinion will not, therefore, be biased in favor of my plan. Miss
Willard, have the kindness to express your views freely on the point."
"How far, sir, would the family have to go to find good, unoccupied
land?"
"O, not a great ways, necessarily; but I would advise from sixty to
eighty miles."
"How would they get there?"
"I doubt not a conveyance can be obtained."
"Who would do the farming?"
"These boys," returned the young man. "Two of them are active and
strong; the other would be a safe companion and adviser. Farming on the
fertile prairies, you must recollect, is vastly different from what it
is in rocky, sterile New England."
"What would land cost?"
"There are," he replied, "two sorts subject to settlement. First,
'school lands,' so called because reserved to be sold for school
purposes. These, at some appointed time, will be offered for sale at
public auction. This may not take place for years. Until then the
squatter or occupant has the use of it free; and when it is disposed
of, usually by courtesy of the neighboring settlers, he has the first
chance at bidding. The other lands can be bought at one dollar and
twenty-five cents per acre, a cabin and a few other improvements being
requisite as proof that the preëmptor is an actual settler, and not a
mere speculator."
"What would the boys do for school and church privileges?"
"O, their aunt could teach them for a while," he smilingly responded,
"should she decide to share their fortunes till they get fairly
started. But immigration is rapidly coming in. Educational and
Christian advantages will soon be enjoyed, and railroads must shortly
be built. Land, if well chosen,—and on the route I would mark out one
could not select amiss,—can but rise in value. So that, while waiting
to hear from Mr. Willard, instead of getting sick and consuming what
little means the family possesses, they will gain in health and vigor,
and perhaps attain a nice property. Now, what say you to this scheme,
Miss Willard?"
The maiden lady's calculating nose seemed to lengthen, the sympathetic
ear-drops waxed tremulous, her features worked as if a tenacious
prejudice and strongly repressed emotions were fighting against
conviction. At length, she said,—
"I suppose you are correct, sir."
"And you will not forsake your sister in her trouble?"
There was a painful struggle. Dear, orderly New England,—where
neatness, thrift, and plenty reigned, where she was born and
nurtured,—and forms of friends she might not again behold! She was
thinking of all this, and putting it in contrast to the loneliness,
toil, and deprivation of the wild prairie. Could she, for others' sake,
give up the old associations and comforts for the new scenes? Crushing
the rebellious regrets, she answered,—
"I shall not leave the family."
"And," pursued her interrogator, "how do the boys vote on this
question?"
"I'm for the prairies," cried impulsive Georgie.
"So am I," added Ferdinand.
"And Frankie?" inquired the young man.
But little Hunchback looked grave and depressed, and sadly shook his
head.
"What are your objections?" asked the young man.
"I think the plan may be wise, but these boys never can carry it out.
They haven't counted the cost," replied the dwarf. "A great deal of
hard work will have to be done, and they don't like too much of it.
They'll get discouraged in less than a week."
"O, little Hunchy's blue!" interrupted Georgie. "I guess we'll do as
much as he will."
"True," replied the Hunchback, gloomily; "but I can do nothing."
"Well, all seem to regard the plan as a good one," said their adviser.
"Next comes the matter of ways and means. Perhaps, however, it will
give you more confidence in the project to learn that I am well
acquainted with pioneer life. My name is Thomas Jones. My parents were
originally from the east. They emigrated in consequence of my father's
losses in business, and the persecutions of creditors. His difficulties
unsettled his mind in a certain direction, and we led a roaming life in
the wilderness, too often removing to get ahead pecuniarily. He got to
be a famous hunter and marksman, and was cool and brave in danger. He
removed at last to Spirit Lake, and was mortally wounded there while
defending the settlers at the time of the Indian uprising. My sister
Sarah, too, was killed, and Charley and little Bub only escaped by
concealing themselves in a hollow tree.
"Soldiers from a frontier fort came to the relief of the cabin so
bravely defended by my dear father, and subsequently returned for
Charley and Bub, who had taken possession of the forsaken dwelling,
and defended it against a second attack of the Indians. After
father's death, which occurred at the fort, my mother, having been
well educated, became governess to the two children, Alice and Walter
McElroy, of the commander of the fortress. Through the generosity
of a friend, and the kindness of the good missionary at L—, I was
subsequently sent east to study for the ministry, and am now on my way
to spend vacation with my relatives and acquaintances of the frontier.
Good-by, now, for a little while. This evening I will see you further
concerning our plan."
"What a splendid fellow that is!" exclaimed Ferdinand, gazing
gratefully and admiringly out of the window after young Jones. "Wasn't
it fortunate that he happened along just as he did?"
"'Happened' along!" repeated his aunt, looking shocked. "Do you believe
in 'chance?' God sent him. Who of the thousands we saw on the journey
paid us any generous attention? Did they not each 'take care of number
one'? And how remarkable that he, of all that crowd on the steamer,
should be just where he could hear us speaking of our dreadful trouble!
Boys, this is a providence. God's hand is in it, and this assurance
leads me to think we shall get along on the frontier."
"Does God order everything?" piped little Hunchie, crossly.
"I know what you mean, Frankie," kindly replied his aunt. "There are
laws which, if we break, we must suffer the penalty. If we carelessly
expose our money, we may be robbed. We are free agents, and can choose
good or evil. If a man chose to rob another, he can do it. We are
not machines. But when we suffer for our own faults, or through the
wickedness of others, God, in pity, often sends his servants to our
assistance. And 'I' do not doubt he sent Thomas Jones."
Ah, what a prop in adversity is faith in One who not only has a
father's loving interest in his children, but who wisely and powerfully
befriends them, causing "all things to work together for their good!"
How much more rational and ennobling such trust than to suppose
ourselves and the great universe to have "happened" into existence,
an existence without forethought, intelligence, order, or end, to be
whirled remorselessly about by blind and pitiless Fate!
Aunt Esther's words sent a thrill of hope to Mrs. Willard's heart, and,
sadly smiling, she remarked,—
"O, if indeed the mighty God is watching over us, I must not despair."
"Ferdie, Frankie, Georgie, where are you? Come out here," shouted a
cheerful voice in front of the tavern.
The lads seized their caps, and hastened to see what was wanted.
In a huge Pennsylvania wagon—"long enough," as they say in that state,
"to reach from one mud-hole to another,"—sat the speaker, reins in
hand. It was Thomas Jones. The boys started in surprise, and dolefully
exclaimed,—
"O, you are not going away—are you?"
"Not yet," was the smiling reply. "How would you like to travel in a
carriage of this sort? Ask your mother and aunt to step this way."
As the two ladies approached, the young man dismounted, and said,—
"Mrs. Willard, how would you and your household fancy a trip into
prairiedom in this establishment? Not very elegant, you perceive; but
please glance in, and see how much room there is inside."
And he gently constrained her to mount to the driver's seat.
"It will accommodate you all, and goods enough almost to furnish a
cabin. And there are the horses, not handsome, but serviceable. It will
be delightful wandering over the prairies in this way! Believe me, you
will enjoy it."
"Whose team is it?" asked Mrs. Willard.
"Yours, madam."
"'Mine!'" she ejaculated.
"Mother's!" echoed the boys.
"The horses will stand. Let us go into the house, and I will explain.
You see, madam, I was very much perplexed how to get you on your
enterprise. Stage-coaching would eat up your means, and leave you
distant from unpreëmpted land. As I was walking up the street, turning
this subject over in my mind, before a shop-shanty was this team, and
the owner was engaged in bargaining to buy out the store. All that
stood in the way of a trade were the wagon and horses. The immigrant,
if he went into trading, would not longer need it, and the shopkeeper
did not wish it. Here, perhaps, is a providence, thought I; and
stepping up, I inquired how little money would pay for the wagon and
span.
"'Wal, stranger,' answered the immigrant, 'bein' as I'm bound ter have
this ere shop, I'll part with the hull concern dog cheap.'
"'I'll consider it,' said I.
"Returning, I entered the bar-room. I'm seldom in there, you are aware,
madam. The room was filled with smoke and smokers. Walking straight to
the bar, I said to the landlord, in a loud tone,—
"'That's a hard case.'
"'What?' he asked, still stirring toddy for a toper.
"'Why, about that woman up stairs, whose husband was lost in the river.'
"'I heard about that,' said he, indifferently.
"'But,' I persisted, speaking louder, 'it's a "very" hard case.'
"'What's the row, friend?' asked a lounger.
"'I'll tell you,' said I. And I rehearsed the whole account, having the
fixed attention of all present.
"'Is she gwine back ter the east?' inquired a rough customer, knocking
the ashes from his pipe.
"'No; she thinks too much of her husband. She's bound to stay till she
hears what has became of him.'
"'That's the kind,' he replied.
"'She ain't gwine ter board here on that on "that" onsartinty—is she?'
he further inquired.
"'No; she and her boys are too smart for that. They are going out on
the prairies. But,' I added, 'the husband had most of the money with
him; and how the women and boys can get there is what puzzles me.
There's a good wagon and span for sale up here, and if I had the money—'
"'Stranger,' broke in a burly fellow, pulling out a greasy wallet, 'I'm
'most dead broke; but ef yer don't let me have a finger in that pie,
I'll know the reason. Here, gentlemen,' he continued, passing round his
jammed and ancient hat, 'put in yer shiners fer the women and the boys.'
"The result is, the team belongs to Mrs. Willard, and if she don't
use it, I don't know what will become of it. But come, Ferdie," he
instantly added, "let us go and put up the horses; then I'll make
suggestions concerning the route."
It was late that night when the Willards and their young pioneer friend
separated, for he had much advice to give, and numberless questions to
answer. Besides, he was to leave by stage in the morning, and this was
their parting interview. With pen and ink, he sketched their course
geographically, and also presented them with a pocket map of the
country. These, Ferdie took charge of.
"Good-by, Mr. Jones," cried the lads in a breath, as he left.
"Boys," he replied, deeply moved, "my mother, brothers, and sisters
always called me Tom. Don't 'mister' me again."
"Tom, dear, dear Tom!" cried Georgie, throwing his arms around his
neck; "I 'do' love you so!"