THE WAYSIDE TAVERN
“Uncle Henry,” said Ed, as the boys were enjoying themselves in the
pleasant living room of the Thompson home, “what kind of a mound is
that in front of Slater’s tavern? It looks like a grave right there
in front of the house. I noticed it when I was going to Lisbon after
cranberry barrels last fall, and I started to ask Mr. Slater who had
been buried there, but one of the teamsters stopping there for dinner
with me looked scared, and hushed me up.”
“Ruth can tell you the story; it’s mighty sad,” replied Mr. Thompson.
“Yes, boys, it is indeed a sad story, but its lesson may do you good,”
replied Mrs. Thompson.
And this is the story she related.
Among the pioneers of settlement in the great forest wilderness of
northern Wisconsin, were Jared Slater, a middle-aged tavernkeeper, from
Vermont, and his young wife. Margaret Strong had been left an orphan at
an early age, and had gone into domestic service as her only available
means of honest support. Of course her education was of the most meager
sort, yet she combined a store of good sense, so often miscalled
“common,” with a character of sterling worth. Especially did she make
known her abhorrence of the traffic in intoxicating liquors, common at
that time to all hotels, or “taverns,” of the country. And, indeed,
she had good cause to know and feel the evils of strong drink, as her
father had gone by this path to the ruin of his own soul and body, and
the destruction of his home.
When Margaret was wooed by Jared Slater, she told him that she would
never link her life with one who was in any way bound with the chains
of the demon alcohol, whether as a user or dispenser to others. Jared
went away, but his love for the young woman was true, and again he
sought her and proposed that he sell his tavern, and then they would
marry and move to the great forests of Wisconsin, where they could
begin life anew, unhampered by old surroundings. Margaret finally
consented, and they moved west.
Jared spent the first year in clearing up a little field for the plow,
and in erecting the necessary farm buildings; and by the time the
baby boy came, things about the place were taking on a comfortable,
homelike appearance. The little family were not utterly alone in this
far-away land, for the “tote-road,” over which supplies from the
distant railroad station, for the farther away camps of the north, were
hauled, ran past their door, and their home became a stopping place for
teamsters and other travelers.
It was not long before Jared’s thrifty, Yankee mind saw the opportunity
for gain lying to his hand in opening his place as a regular tavern,
and he told his wife of his intention. But Margaret objected.
“Ye know, Jared,” said she, “I don’t mind the work. I’m able for that
a-plenty; but ye well know I married ye and came here to get rid of the
tavern. I will not have the rum about me.”
“But, Margaret,” replied Jared, “we’ll have no drink in the tavern;
just lodging and the eating.”
Thus it was for a time; but the old habits of life were revived by the
frequent demands of their guests for liquor, as they would come in from
the long, cold drives, and Jared’s cupidity at length got the better
of his honesty and his faith with his wife, and he began to keep and
dispense liquor again.
At first he endeavored to keep his sin from the knowledge of his wife;
but greed bred carelessness and indifference, and before the third year
of their wilderness home, Jared had his barroom open as a feature of
the roadhouse.
Faithfully Margaret pleaded and earnestly did she warn her husband that
“Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap,” but he refused to
be moved. “I don’t drink it myself, ye know, an’ if these fools want to
part with good money for the stuff, it’s their affair. Some one else
will let them have it if I don’t, and I may as well have the money as
any one else.”
It was not long before the effects of the stream of damnation that
flowed out from Slater’s roadhouse began to show themselves. When
John Pollard went home and beat his wife, so that the life of a
soon-expected little one was snuffed out, and the mother lingered long
at death’s door, it was whispered that the blame lay in Jared Slater’s
barroom. And when that winter a tote team arrived at a camp further
north with the body of the driver stark and stiff, an empty bottle from
Jared’s shelf told the story.
Not only did the tavernkeeper sell his liquid hell to white travelers,
but his Indian neighbors, although especially protected by a law of the
land, became his customers on the sly, and Jared’s eyes gloated over
the piles of rich pelts stored in the back room, that represented to
him but a paltry outlay in liquor.
“It’ll come on ye, Jared, it’ll come on ye. I’m afeared for ye. Ye know
how the drink sets the red men wild. It’ll come back on ye, as sure as
God lives,” solemnly protested Margaret.
* * * * *
It was one of those beautiful days in the late spring, when all nature
seemed to be trying to show man a picture of heaven. The soft air was
singing in the pine tops, the blackbirds were holding a song chorus
nearby, and the open glade was brilliant with spring blossoms. The babe
was making happy little noises in the sunshine, as it came through
the open door. The shadow seemed for the moment to be lifted from the
heart of Margaret, and she sang a hymn as she went about her work. Then
suddenly she instinctively turned her eyes toward the door, with a
feeling of fear. There stood three Indians silently watching. As they
saw the woman notice them, one spoke a single word, “Whisk!” Margaret
stood as if turned to stone. The Indian again spoke, “Give whisk quick!”
The woman saw her danger, but never would she handle the accursed
stuff. The Indians crowded into the room, and stalking past Margaret,
proceeded to help themselves at the bar. Then Margaret turned upon them
like a fury. For their own sakes, for her sake and the baby’s, they
should not get the fiery liquor. Bravely she struggled; then came the
flash of a tomahawk, one shrill scream, and the lifeless form of the
young mother lay upon the floor.
The Indians drank their fill; they drank until escape for themselves
was impossible, and they lay sprawled upon the floor in drunken stupor.
At near sundown Jared Slater returned to his home. The baby, stained in
his mother’s blood, crying upon her lifeless body, the three drunken
Indians lying upon the floor, told the whole story. The brain of the
man gave way. In the center of the road in front of the house he
quickly dug a deep hole, and into that hole dragged the bodies of the
three Indians--whether dead or alive, no one knows.
That grave in the middle of the road, and the tragic story connected
with it, preached a temperance sermon more effective, perhaps, than
could have been spoken by the faithful woman who gave her life in a
protest against the fearful traffic.
The boys never forgot the story and its lesson, and it may be that its
effect was felt when, in later life one of them put the strength of
his manhood into years of successful warfare against the liquor traffic.
Jared Slater lived many years, but he never sold another drop of
liquor. His crazed mind seemed to connect both whiskey and Indians with
his trouble, and never did he see a bottle or shelf of liquor, but that
he made an attempt to destroy it; and when, as occasionally happened,
an Indian would be found in the woods mysteriously killed, it would be
whispered that Jared Slater had been again taking his revenge.
God’s law is certain: “Be sure your sin will find you out.”