JAMES AND EMILY.
They set forward the first week in September. James had left everything
but his rifle and ammunition in the wilderness, and on his way home had
stopped every night at a tavern or farm-house. He therefore had nothing
to carry of any consequence, and put a pack-saddle on his colt, which
Mr. Whitman had broken in the course of the winter, and in the pockets
of the saddle put all Miss Conly’s clothes, flint and steel, provender,
pepper and salt, and mugs to drink out of, and knives and forks. Behind
the saddle of Miss Conly’s horse was strapped a round valise, in which
she carried her needles and some clothing and light articles. When the
weather was pleasant they put up only at night at the taverns, which
were generally poor; halting at noon by some stream or pleasant spot
that afforded grass for the horses. At such times James would often
shoot game and cook it on the coals, or catch a fish in the stream, and
they would lunch.
The diffidence of James gradually wore off as he became better
acquainted with his companion and found how implicitly she relied upon
him for care and protection, but that very fact, coupled with his high
sense of honor, prevented him from giving voice to the words that were
often upon his lips, because he felt that to do this when they were
alone in the wilderness was taking an undue advantage and placing her in
an embarrassing position,—and more terrible still, should he meet with a
refusal, how awkward and constrained would be their positions going back
together, as go they must in the spring.
He could not, however, endure the thought of going into the woods before
the matter was settled, and remaining in a state of suspense all winter.
They were now within a day’s journey of Pittsburg and James had not
effected the purpose nearest his heart. He now began to accuse himself
for having neglected on the road opportunities that would never occur
again, for at Pittsburg they would be in a crowded tavern; and at
William Whitman’s his stay would be brief, and there would occur no
opportunities so favorable as many he had suffered to pass by
unimproved.
The sun was setting as they neared the Scotch settler’s, where James had
before been made so welcome, and Pittsburg was but two miles away. Mr.
Cameron was seated bareheaded on the door-stone with his wife, watching
the children, who were frolicking with a calf they were rearing. Hearing
the tread of horses, he looked up and instantly coming forward, said,—
“Gude e’en, Maister Renfew, I am blythe to see you, and to find that you
like us weel eneuch to be ganging this way again.”
“I never enjoyed myself better than I did last winter, and I am glad to
find you and your family all in good health, for I see they are all
here. This is Miss Conly, a sister to Mrs. Whitman, and is going to
spend the winter with her.”
“I’m right glad to see baith you and the lassie, and now light ye down
and the gude wife’ll gie ye some supper in the turning of a glass, and
ye’ll spend the Sabbath wi’ us, and Monday morning ye can gang on
rejoicing,”
“You are very kind, Mr. Cameron, but it is early and we can get to
Pittsburg before it is very late.”
“I’ll niver consent to it. The horses are weary, so is the lassie; I ken
it by the glance of her een. Ye’ll surely not travel on the Lord’s day,
bating necessity, and the tavern at Pittsburg is no place for Christian
people on the Sabbath, for there will be brawling and fighting and
mayhap bloodshed between the flat-boat men.”
“Take the beasts by the bridles, Donald,” said his wife, “while I put on
the kettle. What ails ye that ye dinna do it? We hae room eneuch for ten
people, let alone twa, and what’s mair a hearty welcome.”
[Illustration: THE SCOTCH SETTLERS’ WELCOME. Page 284.]
James could not have arranged matters so well for himself. Inwardly
rejoicing, he assisted Miss Conly to alight, and they were ushered into
the best room of the hospitable abode. While the travellers washed and
rested a little from the fatigue of a long ride, Mrs. Cameron had
prepared a backwoods supper.
“We have had worship,” said Mr. Cameron, “before ye came, but an ye are
not too weary I wad like to sing a psalm or two; it’s seldom we hae any
one wi’ us can sing.”
After spending an hour so pleasantly as to make James and Emily forget
the fatigue of their journey, they retired for the night.
The evening had thus been fully occupied, and James, his courage screwed
by despair to the sticking point, had as yet found no opportunity for a
private interview.
When Sunday morning came, Emily told Mrs. Cameron if she would like to
attend meeting with her husband, she would take care of the children and
get the meals, to which the former replied that she would gladly go, as
she seldom could leave the children, and Mr. Cameron’s brother was to
have a child christened that Sabbath.
Thus were they left alone, with the exception of the children, who were
most of the time out of doors or in the barn. It seemed indeed a most
auspicious moment; but, although ever approximating like a moth flying
around a candle, James could not summon courage to declare himself in
broad daylight. Mr. Cameron and his wife most likely would be inclined
to sing till bedtime, and thus the opportunity that seemed at the outset
so favorable, would in all probability have resulted in disappointment
had not a fortunate circumstance prevented so untoward an occurrence.
Mr. Cameron was to deliver a load of wheat at Pittsburg by sunrise
Monday morning, and intended to rise at twelve o’clock in order to eat,
load his grain and reach the landing in season, as it was going into a
flat-boat.
Her husband, unsuspecting soul, thought it was the most natural thing in
life that Mrs. Whitman’s sister should come to visit her, and come with
this young man who was going right there; and was anxious even at the
expense of his rest to indulge in a psalm or two. But his shrewder
helpmeet divined that there was a feeling stronger than that of
friendship between her guests, and when supper and worship were
finished, ushered them into the best room, and begging them to excuse
herself and husband, as he was to start at one of the clock or soon
after, and she must rise at twelve to get his breakfast, left them
together.
James found that, like many other things in life, the anticipation was
worse than the reality, and though he could not the next morning have
told the words he had uttered in that little parlor, he was very sure
that Emily Conly had promised to be his wife, provided her parents were
willing, and that he was the happiest fellow that night that the stars
looked down upon.
They took no note of time till they heard Mrs. Cameron up stairs getting
up, and had barely opportunity to scud to their beds before she came
down stairs.
Mr. Cameron had seen William Whitman Sunday at meeting, and notified him
of their being at his house, and when they arrived at Pittsburg they
found William, his wife, with the baby, and Jane Montgomery. It was a
joyful meeting, for the two sisters were tenderly attached to each
other.
“James,” said William Whitman, “we’ll put everything into the birch and
get in ourselves and go home in fine style. Jane Montgomery will take
both the horses along.”
When they had proceeded about seven miles and become a little satiated
with conversation, William struck up a tune in which they all joined,
for it was one which William and the sisters with the rest of the family
were accustomed to sing sitting on the door-step at home. Before going
into the woods James wrote to Mr. Conly and obtained the consent of the
parents on condition that he should not carry her over the Alleghenies
to live, for they could not bear to have the mountains between them and
the remaining daughter.
They began trapping earlier this year; and abandoning the eastern branch
of the stream that had been trapped out, took the western branch and
went farther up, which necessitated the building of some new camps, but
they found more beaver, and being so much earlier upon the ground,
before the bears went into winter quarters, were enabled to kill
several; likewise found more otters, and James, having had the advantage
of a winter’s practice, was more successful, and in the spring they
divided six hundred and fifty dollars between them.
During the journey that James made on his way back the year before to
the Susquehannah, he had been very much pleased with the beauty and
fertility of the limestone soil in the valley of that stream.
Settlements had been made there as early as 1778, but latterly a new
county had been formed, a town had been laid out just above the mouth of
Lycoming Creek that emptied into the west branch of the Susquehannah
River, and a road had been laid out to a painted post, where it struck
the road to New York.
The Susquehannah was navigable, spring and fall, down to the Swatara,
the home of the Conlys and Whitmans, and with a birch at any time of
year. This was quite different from a market at New Orleans by water two
thousand miles away, with hostile Indians on the banks of the stream, or
by wagon road to Baltimore, and across the mountains to Philadelphia,
four horses being required to haul twenty hundred weight, and occupying
six weeks’ time. He now proposed to Emily that they should return that
way and view together that country. They found that the lands in the
valley bordering directly on the river were held very high, much above
James’ means, but that a short distance up the creek that was navigable
for small craft, land equally good could be bought for two dollars an
acre, and could be paid for in gales, as it was termed, that is, by
instalments extending to three years or even five.
“I do not incline, Emily,” said James, “to put myself in such a position
that I must wait till I am past labor and enjoyment both, before I can
obtain sufficient to be comfortable. I think it is better to pay more
for land that is improved and nearer a market, even if you have to wait
longer in the first place, for after you once purchase you must remain
or sell at a loss.”
The landlord of the public-house told James of two places in the
vicinity that had been improved and could be bought; one of which, he
said, was owned by proprietors, had a log house and hovel on it with
twenty acres cleared, and which they held at ten dollars an acre, one
hundred and sixty acres.
“That,” said James, “is the asking price.”
“They are rich and will not take less; they know land will never be
worth less on this creek.”
The other place, he said, was a great deal better place, better land and
better location, because it was on the stream, while the other was a
back lot. It had been bought and paid for by a Mr. Chadwick, but it took
all he had to pay for the land, and having not a cent to help himself
with, and having to work part of the time for others, he could not make
much improvement, and became broken down with hard work and
discouragement, and died in the struggle the winter before; that his
widow and two little children were at her brother-in-law’s at the mouth
of the creek, and she was anxious to sell, but would only sell for cash;
that it would have been bought long before but the majority of settlers
could not pay down; he never had been on it, but believed the buildings
were not much and the lot was a hundred acres.
“If the place is as good as you represent, and joins the land of the
proprietors, and will be sold cheap for cash, why don’t they buy it?”
“They mean to buy it, but are holding off to get it at their own price
because she is poor, and they know she will be obliged to sell, and I
wish that somebody would come along who has the money and take it from
between their teeth.”
“You don’t know what she asks?”
“She did ask nine dollars; don’t know what she asks now.”
Obtaining directions from the landlord, they set out to see the places.
After about four miles’ travel over a good road they then struck into
the woods over a road of very different character, but nevertheless a
very good one for the backwoods. The stumps were cut low to permit the
passage of wheels, many of them taken out, the large rocks removed and
the brooks and gullies bridged in some places with hewn timber, in
others with round logs or flat stones. They passed through clearings on
which were log and timber houses, some of them underpinned with stones
and pointed with lime mortar, and most of the houses built, of round
logs, were chinked with stone pointed with lime mortar, the chimneys
were all built of stone laid in lime mortar, and on most of the farms
were peach orchards. This road had been made by proprietors to increase
the value of their lands, and in dry weather was a very tolerable road
for teams; they also passed a limestone quarry, near which was a rude
kiln.
They now reached the proprietor’s lot; a clearing of twenty acres had
been made, ten of which were in grass, the rest pasture. A timber house
of two stories, hovel built of logs, and hogsty and corncrib; the house
had three rooms on the lower floor, stone fireplace, chimney and oven
laid in lime mortar, two glazed windows in each room and in front;
between the house and the road was a peach orchard in bearing, and a hop
vine was clinging to the corner of the house. A spring in the head of a
ravine ten rods from the dwelling afforded water.
James judged that the land was of fair quality, but broken and heavily
timbered. After examining all that portion of the lot under culture, and
the buildings, they rode on six miles farther, when they came to a very
large pine-tree, hollow, blazed, and that bore the marks of fire. This
tree had been given to James as a mark, and stood at the head of a
bridle path which they followed, and soon came in sight of the creek,
and rode through a beautiful stretch of level land, alluvial soil, and
extending along the stream. In the centre of this clearing stood a great
sugar maple, and beneath its lofty branches was nestled a diminutive
camp, built of small logs, rather poles, stuffed with moss and clay. It
was evident that stones were either not to be found upon this place or
else the occupant had not cattle to haul them, as the fireplace was made
of logs with a lining of clay, and small stones evidently water-worn and
procured from the brook.
A large branch had been torn from the tree by the wind, and falling on
the roof and chimney that was made of sticks coated with clay, had
crushed in both roof and chimney. Within ten feet of the door a
beautiful spring was bubbling out from beneath the spur roots of the
maple. The hovel was much larger and higher than the dwelling, which
would not have admitted a horse, being too low, and boasted a good bark
roof; it was of sufficient size to contain six head of cattle and
considerable hay.
It was already far past noon and they sat down by the spring to quench
their thirst, bait their horses and partake of a luncheon.
“It is,” said James, “idle for us to think any more of the other place
at present, as it is beyond my means, and I will not run in debt, my
only object in looking at it was to compare prices. It is possible this
place may not do, but there is not time to examine as thoroughly as I
should like, we will go back and come again to-morrow.”
They returned again next morning in such season as to have the greater
part of the day before them, and after a thorough examination, James
said,—
“This place is worth two of the other for any poor man to get his living
on, and I know if it will come within my means it is the place for me.
What do you think of it. Do you feel as though you could ever make it
feel like home?”
“My home will be where my husband finds it for his interest to be, and
there shall I be content and happy, provided I can have sheep and cows,
and flax, and spinning and weaving enough to do, that I may carry my
part of the load in the way mother brought me up from childhood. But, to
tell the truth, I should not have to try very hard to like this place,
for it is the sweetest spot I ever saw.”
“I like the place, but must be governed entirely by the possibility of
being able to pay for it and to get my living from it afterwards.”
“I can’t help feeling a little sad as I sit by this spring of which they
drank, look upon that roof that once sheltered them, now all fallen in,
and recollect that they came here no doubt building castles in the air
as you and I do, and full of hope as we are, thinking what they would
do; and then the husband was taken sick and, as the landlord expressed
it, died in the struggle for a homestead.”
“The man died,” said James, who had not one bit of sentiment about him,
“of a broken heart, and the reason that his heart broke was because he
paid his last cent for land, and looked no farther, a thing no man
should ever do.”
“Perhaps he liked the place, and his wife liked it, and wanted to live
here and nowhere else.”
“I like the place, but I shall not buy it and go on it without a cent.”
James ascertained that the stream in its windings had formed a tongue of
alluvial soil equal in extent to all the cleared land on the place, and
which was concealed from his view the day before by the forest. It was
overflowed and dressed by the spring and fall freshets and bore an
abundance of grass, and by cutting a few bushes and removing the rafts
of driftwood could be enlarged. This added vastly to the value of the
land, particularly to an emigrant, as a stock of cattle could be kept at
once, the openings in the woods affording with the browse sufficient
pasturage in summer. He also found that the next lot of a hundred and
sixty acres was government land, could be bought for two dollars an
acre, or one dollar and sixty cents cash, and that on this lot was a
mill-site.
“Now, Emily, we have seen all there is to be seen, and talked the matter
over, I want to know if you like this place well enough for a home,
because when I go to see this woman to know if she will take what I can
give, I shall close the bargain. My own mind is made up that for me this
is home.”
“My mind is made up; this is my home.”
The next morning, James went to find Mrs. Chadwick. She held the place
at nine dollars an acre; said she had held it at ten; that everybody who
was a judge of land said that it was worth more than the Ainsworth
place, that the proprietors held at ten dollars, and that she must have
cash.
James replied that the place had no buildings but a brush camp, only six
acres cleared; that he expected to pay cash, but not so much as that.
Mrs. Chadwick said in reply, as James very well knew, that though there
were but six acres cleared, yet by reason of the natural grass that grew
on the intervale, it cut as much hay as the other place, that had twenty
acres cleared by fire and axe.
After talking a while she fell to eight and a half. James replied that
he compassionated her misfortunes, and wished she might get ten dollars,
and even more, per acre, but that he was a young man just starting in
life, had but seven hundred and sixty dollars in the world, but could
get enough more to make up to eight hundred, and would give that, she
replied,—
“Can I have any time to think of it? I would like to consult my
brother-in-law.”
“I am going through here to-morrow on my way home. I will call then and
get your mind.”
When upon his return, he told what he had said to Mrs. Chadwick, Emily
replied,—
“I do not see how you could offer eight hundred for the land, when you
have got but seven hundred and sixty, and you have always said that you
never would spend all you had, to get a piece of land, and then be
obliged to go on it without a cent to help yourself with.”
“Nor do I intend to do it either. Arthur Nevins has been coaxing me for
several months to sell the colt to him. He’s an extra colt, and I don’t
know but he’ll make as good a horse as old Frank. He has offered me a
hundred and ten dollars for him. I am going to ask him a hundred and
twenty. I know he’ll give it; if not, there’s another who will, and I
shall have eighty dollars left.”
“Is that enough to begin with?”
“Many have begun with less, but that is not my method of looking at
things. I shall work for Mr. Whitman this summer, trap with William next
winter, and if Mrs. Chadwick takes me up, go on to the place in the
spring or early in the fall. If she won’t sell, I shall by that time
have sufficient, by the blessing of God,—as grandfather, if he was
living, would say,—to buy a place in this region equally good. There are
always people enough who are unfortunate or fickle-minded, who want to
sell.”
James slept but very little that night, for his heart was set upon
getting that land, and more especially since he saw that his companion
was equally desirous of making it her home.
Miss Conly had told the landlord’s wife that James could run land, and
by the time they were up in the morning, the landlord told James that
there was a gentleman in the bar-room inquiring for a surveyor, for the
only person in that place who surveyed land was sick with a rheumatic
fever, and asked him if he could go, to which James replied that he had
no instruments with him, but the landlord urged him to go and see the
man, for doubtless they could obtain the sick man’s chain and compass.
James told the man if it was merely measuring land to ascertain the
number of rods, feet or acres, he would go after he had met his
engagement with Mrs. Chadwick, but if it was a matter of contested
lines, he must get some person of more experience. The man replied there
was no other person to be obtained without going a great distance, that
there was no dispute about titles, but his work would be merely to
divide a large body of land into lots, and lay out roads through it.
James lost no time in going to see the lady, who by the advice of her
relatives, had concluded to accept his offer, and he paid her fifty
dollars to hold the bargain till he could obtain the money at home. The
next day he went on the survey, and was occupied five days, at two
dollars and seventy-five cents a day, and paid but a trifle for the use
of the instruments.
“Grandfather was right,” said James, as they rode away from the inn,
“when he urged me to study surveying, and would make me, when Saturday
afternoons came and I wanted to work in the shop, go with Walter Conly
and measure and plot land, and learn the use of instruments. He said it
would put many a dollar in my pocket, and it has already put in almost
fourteen.”