WILLIAM WHITMAN.
James was proceeding leisurely along the street bordering on the river,
called Front Street, when, as he approached a log tavern where a great
number of teams were standing, his horse was suddenly caught by the
bridle, and upon looking up, he was confronted by one of the
finest-looking men he thought he had ever met, and who, extending his
hand, exclaimed,—
“Is this James Renfew?”
James replied in the affirmative, as he clasped the offered hand of the
stranger, and returned his hearty grasp.
“I am William Whitman, and I knew old Frank the instant I set eyes on
him. How are you, old playmate?” patting Frank’s neck. “He’s just my
age; twenty-five years old last April, the tenth. Frank and I are one
year’s children. How smooth he looks; young as a colt. You’ll have a
good time here, old fellow, this winter, plenty to eat and nothing to
do.”
“Ah! there’s father’s old rifle,” laying his hand on the weapon, that
lay across the forward part of the saddle. “Oh! what a good father he
was to us, and brought us all up in the right way. I know in reason he
is better off, and that we must all die, but the old rifle brings
everything back,—all the old days when he used to teach me to shoot
under the old chestnut. Father did not know how old that tree was. How
long have you lived with my brother?”
“Four years.”
“And you have lived right among them all that time, and was there when
my father died?”
“Yes, sir; your father taught me to work with tools, and to shoot, and
trap, and could not rest till he brought me and Peter, Bertie and Maria,
to pray to God, and then he died.”
“You don’t know how glad I am to see you, and how glad Mary will be to
see somebody right from home. I suppose you knew my wife was Bradford
Conly’s daughter?”
“Yes, sir; I went to school to Walter two winters; and Edward Conly was
the last person except your brother’s folks that I shook hands with.”
William Whitman went for his horse, and they set forth; the road, very
good for a few miles, soon became a mere bridle path between spotted
trees. Clearings were sparse, and consisted of a few acres, the houses
were built of round logs, the roofs covered with splints hollowed like a
gouge, two laid hollow side up, and a rider rounded so that the edges of
it turned into the hollows of the under ones, was placed on top, like
the tiles of a West Indian house.
“I am taking you to a rough place by a rough road, but we shall be
comfortable and find something to keep soul and body together when we
get there.”
They now came in sight of the Monongahela and to some high bottom land
of about six acres, smooth, bare of trees and covered with a thick sward
of grass, in which was a young orchard, and in the midst of the orchard
stood a house built of logs, the tops and bottom hewn, and the chimney
of brick laid in lime mortar, and the bottom logs of the house were
underpinned with stone and the stones pointed with lime mortar. The
windows were small but glazed and fitted with bullet-proof shutters, and
the roof covered with pine shingles nailed. There was also a good frame
barn and a corn crib of round logs. Besides this natural meadow, about
ten acres had been cleared of forest, part of which had that season been
planted with corn and sown with wheat, and about three acres were
already green with winter rye, the remainder was in grass. The house
stood at a slight elbow in the stream, and thus commanded a view of the
river in both directions. Mr. Whitman told James it was about three
miles to where the river Youghiogheny came in.
“We are a rough-handed people here, Mr. Renfew, have forgotten what
little breeding we ever had, but we can give you a hearty welcome,” said
William as they dismounted, and fastening the horses, he led the way to
the house.
“Mary,” he said to his wife who met them at the door with a babe in her
arms, “this is Jonathan’s boy, James Renfew. I reckon he must think
about as much of him as he does of Peter or Bertie. If he didn’t, he
never would have let him have Frank to come out into this wilderness.”
“Now, Mr. Renfew, just sit you down and talk with the woman while I see
to the horses.”
James told Mrs. Whitman how lately he had parted with her parents and
brothers, and as Mr. Whitman just then came in, everything in relation
to the old gentleman that he thought would be interesting to them.
Suddenly Mrs. Whitman exclaimed,—
“Husband, what are we thinking about? Mr. Renfew has not had anything to
eat and now it is past noon.” Her husband took the child, and she soon
had biscuit in the Dutch oven and slices of venison, killed the day
before, broiling.
“Take a seat in my wife’s rocking chair, Mr. Renfew,” pointing to a
singularly constructed affair in the corner; “you see it took three to
make that chair. The Lord found the stuff; I did a little cabinet work,
and Mary the ornamental part.”
It was made by fitting a board into two-thirds of a hollow cedar log for
a seat, and notching into it for the arms, and slanting the back, to the
bottom, were fitted rockers. The wife had made a cushion, covered and
stuffed the arms and back, and thus made a most comfortable chair.
The cradle was more remarkable still, being made of an entire hollow
sycamore log; this log, after being cut off the right length, was sawed
down two feet from the ends, the piece taken out leaving the rest for
the top; the ends were filled with basswood bark, pressed flat and
fastened with glue, made by boiling the tips of deer’s horns; and
rockers were put on.
It was large enough for three babies, as a large log was taken in order
to get height sufficient for the top, but the space was filled with a
bed and stuffing. Two pewter platters, four earthen mugs, wooden plates,
spoons and bowls, all of wood, made the table furniture, and bedsteads
were made of rough poles.
On the other hand there was a handsome loom with reeds and harness, all
in excellent order, large and little wheels and reels and cards, and
good feather beds and bedding.
“I see you are looking at my wife’s cradle,” said William, “it was made
for the occasion, but the child is comfortable, and may be President of
the United States yet.”
“Did you make that loom? It is very handsome.”
“Yes, I thought as it was a thing we should always need, I would take
time and make it well. I could have made a cradle of boards, but we
needed the boards for a roof, and nails are a scarce article here. The
fact is we brought the things we most needed, and I brought my tools,
because I knew I could with them hatch up something to get along with,
and when I got time make something better. Now, Mr. Renfew,—”
“Call me James, if you please, I shall feel more at home.”
“Now, James, if you’ll take care of the beasts, I’ll take my rifle and
see if I can get a wild turkey, or pigeon, and then we’ll have another
chat; for to-morrow we must get ready for the woods.”
“You may think it silly, James, but I’ll go out with you, for I want to
see and pet old Frank; nothing brings home so near as seeing him,” said
Mary.
“That’s because I always rode him over to her father’s when I was
courting her, and she used to ride on his back, on the pillion behind
me, to singing school, huskings and all sorts of doings.”
Away he went, humming a merry tune. While Mrs. Whitman was talking to
Frank, patting him, pulling locks of sweet hay out of the mow and giving
to him, James looked after the retreating form of her husband, who was
making the woods ring with his music, and said within himself,—
“What a man!—far from neighbors, with three little children,
bullet-proof window shutters, five rifles and a shot-gun hanging over
the fireplace, and gay as a lark. He’s just like Bertie for all the
world; it’s just as Mrs. Whitman said, ‘If you like Bertie you’ll like
his uncle, for they are just alike.’”
At dusk Mr. Whitman returned with a turkey and three pigeons, and after
the evening meal was partaken of and the children in bed, James asked
him how he came to think of settling where he was when there was plenty
of wild land east of the mountains, and especially as the homes both of
himself and wife were there.
“I came up here when I was seventeen years old with uncle Nathan
Hendrick trapping, we trapped on this stream and on the Youghiogheny;
there were beaver here then,—a few,—a good many otters and foxes, and no
end to the coons; we did well and that gave me a taste for trapping.
“When I was eighteen, father gave me my time, a good rifle, and money to
buy a good set of traps. I worked two summers on farms, and in the
winters came up here and trapped alone. Then I had fallen head over ears
in love with that girl who is jogging the cradle, and she wanted to get
married and settle down awful”—upon this he received a sound box on the
ear from his wife. “You see we wanted to get together, I had taken a
great liking to this place, couldn’t get it out of my head, used to
dream about it. I hadn’t much money but wanted considerable land,
couldn’t bear to be crowded; and this land was dog cheap. About this
time I got acquainted with a half-breed Indian, who told me there was
good trapping and hunting on the Big Beaver. I went and looked over this
land, made up my mind just exactly as to what I could do with it, saw
that I could get along faster here than anywhere else, because I could
do two things as you may say at once.”
“What two things?”
“I could trap and farm. I made up my mind at once and bought two hundred
acres, though it took all the money I had. I went to a blacksmith in
Pittsburg who I knew often saw the half-breed, and got him to ask him to
trap with me the next winter, and for the smith to write me, and went
home. When I got home, father had given the farm to Jonathan to take
care of him and mother. I hired with Jonathan at twenty-five dollars a
month. I worked till August and had a hundred dollars.”
“Why didn’t you work through the season?”
“Because I had received a letter from the smith saying that the
half-breed would trap with me, and I knew I could trust that Indian.
“I gave forty-five dollars of my money to that woman for safe keeping
(it was an awful risk, but I did it). I borrowed a mule and a
pack-saddle of Mr. Nevins and put on him seventy-five steel traps,
powder, lead and blankets, a few tools to make dead-falls (wooden traps)
and other fixings, took old Frank, put a saddle and pillion on him and
some light things, tied the mule’s bridle to Frank’s tail, put Bertie on
the pillion, and started. The Indian had agreed to meet me at Turkey
Foot.”
“What is Turkey Foot?”
“Don’t you remember that just after you left Somerset you crossed a
creek with high banks?”
“Yes.”
“Not far from that the Yo. (Youghiogheny) splits into three forks. That
is the middle one, and the place where they divide is called Turkey
Foot, because it looks so much like one.
“You know what that boy is; keen as a brier and smart as steel. Wasn’t
he tickled when he found he was going and where he was going; he hugged
me, kissed me, and hardly knew which end he stood on.”
“That explains something that has puzzled me. When I got near the
crossing I found an Indian path, and Frank was so determined to follow
it that I had to strike him several times before he would give it up. I
could not imagine what it meant, for I thought I knew he had never been
there before.”
“When we reached Turkey Foot the Indian had been there a week, and had
laid in a lot of provisions; he had the carcass of a deer hung up and
had smoked and dried the best parts of several more, and had killed and
dried a lot of wild pigeons.”
“What did Bertie say to the Indian?”
“Made friends with him right off; stuck to him like his shadow, Bert’s
tongue running like a mill-clapper and the Indian grunting once in a
while, but the half-breed made him a bow and arrows and a little birch,
and he went back with the two horses, about the biggest-feeling boy ever
you saw.
“We paddled down the Yo. into this stream, and down this to Pittsburg,
got some more traps there, went down the Allegheny twenty-five miles to
Big Beaver, and up that about fifteen miles; went to trapping and
trapped till the middle of April. The Indian wanted to carry his furs to
Canada, so we made another canoe and came to Pittsburg, where I stored
my furs.”
“Then I suppose you took the canoe, came to Turkey Foot, and from there
home?”
“By no means. I wrote a letter, told ‘em what I had done; that I was
well; hoped they were the same; must excuse all mistakes; came here, and
went to felling trees, till the fifteenth of May; then I went eight
miles to the nearest neighbor, and got him to come with his team, and
plough up an acre of the clear land; planted it with potatoes and corn,
and sowed a little flax. I then cut all the grass that grew on the
bottom land, and in openings in the woods, made a hand-sled, hauled it
to the stack and stacked it. Then I went right into a thick place in the
woods and built a log camp; it was only fourteen feet by twelve, and
just high enough to get into, with a splint roof, a stone fireplace, no
chimney, only a hole through the roof, and no floor, but brush laid on
the ground. It had but one window, and that was made in the door; was
filled with oiled paper, and had a slide for stormy weather. Then, after
making a house for cattle, I went to chopping till the last of August,
and then went to hunting and trapping again.”
“Did you go back to the Beaver?”
“No, indeed; had hunting and trapping enough on the spot. I had built no
fence because I had no cattle, and the bears, deers, and coons were
determined to have my corn. Sometimes when I turned out in the morning,
I would find a moose or a deer feeding on my grass, or browsing among
the trees I had cut last. In a brook about a mile off there were a few
otters, and many minks and foxes. I bought a lot of hens and geese, on
purpose to tole the foxes, and went to trapping and shooting in good
earnest. I made a log-trap for bears and wolves, and once in a while
shot a moose or deer, and trapped otters and foxes. I had so much meat
lying round that it toled the foxes and wolves; the wolves soon drove
off the deer and moose, and then I shot the wolves on bait. Every wolf I
killed I got ten shillings bounty and his skin was worth two dollars;
and a bear’s skin from sixteen to twenty. That’s what I meant when I
said that here I could do two things at the same time. I had built a
house, raised corn, potatoes, flax, and hay enough to carry me through
the winter, felled five acres of trees, and earned by trapping and
shooting more than I had all the summer before, working for my brother,
and been at work for myself most of the time. As for the deer, bears,
and wolves, I didn’t go after them, and it did not take much time to set
the traps, and what was of no less consequence I had got a first-rate
birch. There’s nothing like a birch to a wild Indian, or a new settler.”
“Is a birch then so valuable?”
“Next to the Bible and the narrow axe.”
“I don’t suppose you meant to go on to your place till spring?”
“Didn’t. I pulled my flax and spread it to rot, put my pack, rifle and
provisions into the birch and started up-stream. I didn’t go to the
Forks where I met the half-breed, but into Sewickly Creek, and paddled
up it to within a rod of the road, hid the birch in the woods, took my
pack and started for home.”
“That was a long hard journey.”
“It was all that. I told this little woman what I had done, made it as
bad as I knew how; told her just what a miserable place she would have
to live in, and gave her the choice to go back with me or I would go
back alone, trap all winter and come for her in the spring, and before
another winter build a more comfortable house; and all her folks and
most of mine thought that was the best way.
“But she wouldn’t hear a word of it, said if I could stand it, she
could; wasn’t a bit afraid, that it was the best time of the year to go
because the roads were better and the streams we would have to ford were
low; and that I ought to be on my land early in the spring to sow or
plant the ground I had ploughed. So we got married, and then the old
folks set in worse than ever for us not to go till spring, and even the
neighbors took it up, but I had one on my side and he was worth all the
rest.”
“Who was that?”
“Father,” said William, sinking his voice to a whisper.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Whitman, “his opinion was worth more than all the
other’s opinions. A few nights before we set out, and when all the young
girls, my schoolmates, were pitying me and doing all they could to make
me feel worse, the good old man took me into the other room and said:
‘Mary, never you mind those young people, don’t let anything they say
jar you a particle. Listen to the old man who has been over every inch
of the road you and William are starting on. If you live to my age
you’ll look back and say that the days you spent in the brush camp were
the happiest days, for they were full of hope; but when you have lived
to my age you will have outlived all your hopes but the hope of eternal
life, and that is the best of all, because the possession will be more
than the expectation while everything else falls short. You have got a
good husband, his heart is tender as a child’s, but his mind is as firm
as a piece of the nether millstone. He’s a cheery lad, he’ll look on the
bright side, keep your heart up and his own too. You are married now and
have taken the first step, don’t look back, it didn’t work well with
Lot’s wife. I never knew it to work well with anybody, look ahead; a man
isn’t half a man and a woman isn’t half a woman who has never had any
load to carry. I take it you’ll work in an even yoke; you are both
smart, and no doubt feel that you are equal to anything, and perhaps
look down on people who have not your strength and resolution, but it is
better to look up, and the first night you get into the camp I want
William to take the Bible and read and pray, and I want you to ask him
to.’ I didn’t have to ask him.”
“Didn’t you wish you had taken your parents’ advice before you got over
the mountains, and before you got through that first winter?”
“By no means. We had no table only some pieces of bark set on four
stakes, driven into the ground; no bedstead, but put the beds on the
brush; we had no room for furniture, because I must have room for my
wool and flax wheels, to spin the flax William had raised and the wool I
had brought from home.”
“Were you comfortable?”
“I never saw so warm a place as that camp. William covered it all over
with brush outside, and the snow drifted over it; we had plenty of bear
and wolf skins, and if it had not been for the hole in the roof we
should have roasted.”
“How did you get the wagon here,—there was no road?”
“William got a teamster who was going to Pittsburg with four horses and
a light load to take the canoe, and it arrived in Pittsburg before we
did. We put our things, part of ‘em, in that, and we came in; the next
day he got the rest and left the wagon till winter, and then made a sled
and hauled it up the river on the ice. The river makes an excellent road
in winter for a sled and in summer for the canoe.”
“Yes; and Providence keeps it in repair, and no road tax to work out,”
said her husband.
James could not have been placed in a better school to learn how to cut
his way through life than with this cheerful, resolute pair in the
wilderness.
The next morning they took the birch canoe from the barn; Whitman gummed
the seams, and they carried it to the water. Whitman held it, told James
to get in, sit down in the middle and keep still; he then got in
himself, and standing up, with one stroke of the paddle, sent the light
craft flying into the middle of the stream. James was delighted with the
movement of the buoyant craft.
William then told him to kneel down and take the paddle while he kept
the balance, and to paddle without fear, for he would keep her on her
bottom.
“James, you have got to learn to use this birch. Can you swim?”
“Like a fish.”
“Well then, take off part of your clothes and try it; for most likely
you’ll upset.”
James crossed the stream, came back and attempted to go up stream; he
went up a little way, but in turning to come back, the birch went out
from under him, then righted, and was three times her length from him in
a moment.
“You can’t get into her, give her a shove to me.” James gave the canoe a
little push with one hand, and the light craft spun over the water to
William, who held her while James swam ashore.
“What queer things they are! I was in the water before I could wink.”
“Ay, they’ll tip you out, and right themselves without a drop of water
in ‘em, and then sit and laugh at you. We must now make up our minds how
many traps we can tend. How many traps did you bring?”
“Only twenty-five small ones.”
“I think we ought to tend three hundred. I am going to trap on the same
ground that the Indian and I trapped on last year. My traps are there
hid under rocks. I shall get a few more. If you’ll take care of the
cattle and practise in this birch, I’ll go to Pittsburg and get the
traps, and leave ‘em there to take when we go along, and to-morrow we’ll
start.”
James, in the course of the day, got used to the birch, and met with no
farther mishap.
Whitman got home at dusk, and called him to supper, when he found a
young woman of twenty and a stout boy of eighteen by the name of
Montgomery. They could neither of them read or write, and were to stay
with Mrs. Whitman during the absence of her husband, and she was to
teach them to read and write. Jane Montgomery was also to weave a web of
cloth for her mother, as they were recent settlers and had as yet no
loom. The next day was spent in preparations for departure and in
putting all their things into the birch,—cooking utensils, blankets,
provisions and other matters, tools to make dead falls, and repair
camps, and snow shoes.