ON THE DISPUTED TERRITORY.
The straggling, unkempt, and forlorn town of Parkville, Missouri, was
crowded with strangers when the emigrants arrived there after a long
and toilsome drive through Iowa. They had crossed the Mississippi from
Illinois into Iowa, at Fulton, on the eastern shore, and after
stopping to rest for a day or two in Clinton, a pretty village on the
opposite bank, had pushed on, their faces ever set westward. Then,
turning in a southwesterly direction, they travelled across the lower
part of the State, and almost before they knew it they were on the
sacred soil of Missouri, the dangers of entering which had been
pictured to them all along the route. They had been warned by the
friendly settlers in Iowa to avoid St. Joseph, one of the crossings
from Missouri into Kansas; it was a nest of Border Ruffians, so they
were told, and they would surely have trouble. They must also steer
clear of Leavenworth; for that town was the headquarters of a number
of Missourians whose names were already terrible all over the Northern
States, from Kansas to Massachusetts Bay.
"But there is the military at Fort Leavenworth," replied Mr. Bryant.
"Surely they will protect the citizens of the United States who are
peaceful and well-behaved. We are only peaceable immigrants."
"Pshaw!" answered an Iowa man. "All the army officers in this part of
the country are pro-slavery men. They are in sympathy with the
pro-slavery men, anyhow, and if they had been sent here to keep
free-State men out of the Territory, they couldn't do any different
from what they are doing. It's an infernal shame, that's what it is."
Bryant said nothing in reply, but as they trudged along, for the roads
were very bad, and they could not often ride in their vehicles now,
his face grew dark and red by turns. Finally he broke out,--
"See here, Aleck," he cried, "I don't want to sneak into the
Territory. If these people think they can scare law-abiding and
peaceable citizens of a free country from going upon the land of these
United States, we might just as well fight first as last. For one, I
will not be driven out of a country that I have got just as much right
to as any of these hot-headed Missouri fellows."
His brother-in-law looked troubled, but before he could speak the
impetuous and fiery Sandy said: "That's the talk, Uncle Charlie!
Let's go in by the shortest way, and tackle the Border Ruffians if
they tackle us. Who's afraid?" And the lad bravely handled his
"pepper-box," as his old-fashioned five-barrelled revolver was
sportively called by the men of those days; for the modern revolver
with one barrel for all the chambers of the weapon had not then come
into use. "Who's afraid?" he repeated fiercely, looking around.
Everybody burst out laughing, and the valorous Sandy looked rather
crestfallen.
"I am afraid, for one," said his father. "I want no fighting, no
bloodshed. I want to get into the Territory and get to work on our
claim, just as soon as possible; but if we can't get there without a
fight, why then, I'll fight. But I ain't seeking for no fight." When
Aleck Howell was excited, his grammar went to the four winds. His view
of the situation commended itself to the approval of Oscar, who said
he had promised his mother that he would avoid every appearance of
hostile intention, keep a civil tongue in his head, have his weapons
out of sight and his powder always dry.
The emigrants decided to go into Kansas by way of Parkville.
At Claybank, half-way between the Iowa line and the Missouri River,
they encountered a drover with a herd of cattle. He was eager to
dicker with the Kansas emigrants, and offered them what they
considered to be a very good bargain in exchanging oxen for their
horses. They were now near the Territory, and the rising prices of
almost everything that immigrants required warned them that they were
not far from the point where an outfit could no longer be bought at
any reasonable price. The boys were loth to part with their buggy;
for, although they had been often compelled to go afoot through some
of the worst roads in the States of Iowa and Missouri, they had clung
to the notion that they might have a pair of horses to take into the
Territory, and, while the buggy was left to them, they had a refuge in
times of weariness with walking; and these were rather frequent. The
wagon was exchanged for another, suitable for oxen.
The immigrants drove gayly into Parkville. They were in sight of the
Promised Land. The Big Muddy, as Missourians affectionately call the
turbid stream that gives name to their State, rolled sluggishly
between the Parkville shore and the low banks fringed with cottonwoods
that were the eastern boundary of Kansas. Looking across, they could
see long lines of white-covered wagons, level plains dotted with
tents, and the rising smoke of many fires, where people who had gone
in ahead of them were cooking their suppers; for they entered
Parkville late in the afternoon. It was a commonplace-looking view of
Kansas, after all, and not at all like what the lads had fancied it
would be. Sandy very emphatically expressed his disappointment.
"What would you have, Sandy?" asked his uncle, with some amusement.
"Did you expect to see wild honey dripping out of the cottonwoods and
sycamores, buffaloes and deer standing up and waiting to be shot at,
and a farm ready to be tilled?"
"Well," replied the boy, a little shamefacedly, "I didn't exactly
expect to see all those things; but somehow the country looks awful
flat and dull. Don't you think so?"
For answer, Mr. Bryant pointed out a line of blue slopes in the
distance. "Those are not very high hills, my boy, to be sure, but they
are on the rolling prairie beyond, and as soon as we get away from the
river we shall find a bluffy and diversified country, I'll warrant
you."
"Yes; don't you remember," broke in Oscar, eagerly, "Governor
Robinson's book told all about the rolling and undulating country of
the Territory, and the streams that run under high bluffs in some
places?"
Sandy admitted that this was true of the book; but he added, "Some
books do lie, though."
"Not Governor Robinson's book," commented his brother Charlie, with a
slight show of resentment. For Charlie had made a study of the reports
from the Promised Land.
But a more pressing matter was the attitude of the border-State men
toward the free-State emigrants, and the question of making the
necessary purchases for their farming scheme. Parkville was all alive
with people, and there were many border-State men among them. Some of
these regarded the newcomers with unmistakable hostility, noting
which, Sandy and Oscar took good care to keep near their two grown-up
protectors; and the two men always went about with their weapons
within easy reaching distance. All of the Borderers were opposed to
any more free-State men going into the Territory; and many of them
were disposed to stop this by force, if necessary. At one time, the
situation looked very serious, and Sandy got his "pepper-box" into
position. But the trouble passed away, and the arrival of fifteen or
twenty teams, accompanied by a full complement of men, checked a
rising storm of wrath.
From Platte City, a short distance up the river, however, came doleful
and distressing stories of the ill-treatment of the free-State men who
had gone that way. They were harassed and hindered, and, in some
cases, their teams were deliberately turned about and driven back on
the road by which they had come. It was useless to remonstrate when
the rifles of a dozen men were levelled at the would-be immigrants.
But our travellers in Parkville heard a good story of the bravery of
one free-State man who had been refused transportation across the
ferry at Platte City, kept by an ardent pro-slavery man. The intending
immigrant, unconscious of any hindrance to his crossing, was calmly
driving down to the ferry-boat, a flat-bottomed craft propelled by
long oars, or sweeps, when the ferryman stopped him with the question,
"What hev ye got into yer waggin?"
"Oxen," sententiously replied the newcomer.
"And what's them thar cattle follering on behind?" he asked, pointing
to a drove of milch-cattle in the rear.
"Caouws," answered the immigrant, in the broad pronunciation peculiar
to provincial people of the New England States.
"All right," was the rejoinder; "a man that says 'caouws' can't go
over this yere ferry withouten he's got the tickets." No argument
would induce the ferryman to explain what the tickets were and where
they could be procured. Finally, his patience exhausted, the
free-State man suddenly drew from the big pockets of his frock a pair
of tremendous pistols, ready cocked, and, holding them full in the
face of the surprised ferryman, he said,--
"Here are my tickets, and I'm going across this ferry right off,
caouws or no caouws!" And he went.
Even at Parkville, where there was very little difficulty in crossing,
as compared with what there had been earlier in the struggle for
Kansas, they were advised by discreet friends and sympathizers to be
on the lookout for opposition. Every fresh arrival of free-State men
angered yet more the Borderers who were gathered there to hinder and,
if possible, prevent further immigration. Mr. Bryant chafed under the
necessity of keeping his voice hushed on the topic that engaged all
his thoughts; and Oscar and Sandy were ready to fight their way
across the river; at least they said so.
They did find, however, that the buying of provisions and farming-tools
required for their future use, was out of the question in Parkville.
Whether it was the unexpected demand, or a refusal of the Missourians
to sell to free-State men, they could not determine. But the prices of
everything they wanted were very high. What should they do? These
articles they must have. But their cost here was far beyond their
most extravagant estimates. When Mr. Howell was reminded by his
brother-in-law how he had said that no politics could interfere with
trade and prices, he was amused.
"Of course," he said, "it does look as if these Missourians would not
sell at fair prices because they want to hinder us; but don't you see
that the demand is greater than the supply? I know these folks are
bitterly hostile to us; but the reason why they have so small a stock
of goods on hand is that they have sold out to other free-State men
that have come before us to buy the same things. Isn't that so?"
Mr. Bryant was obliged to admit that this was a reasonable explanation;
but as he had begun by thinking that every Borderer hated a free-State
man and would do him an injury if he could, he did not give up that
notion willingly. He was certain that there was a plot in the high
prices of bacon, flour, corn-meal, and ploughs.
In this serious dilemma, Charlie came to the relief of the party with
the information that a free-State man, whose team had just recrossed
the river for a load of supplies sent him by a wagon that was to
return to Iowa, brought news that a large trading-post had been opened
at a new Kansas town called Quindaro. He said that the Iowa man told
him that prices were just now lower in Quindaro than they had ever
been in Parkville.
"Quindaro?" said Oscar, musingly;--"why, that must be an Indian
name,--feminine Indian name, too, unless I miss my guess."
Mr. Bryant had heard of Quindaro. It was a brand-new town, a few miles
down the river, settled by free-State men and named for a young,
full-blooded Indian girl of the Delaware tribe. The town was on the
borders of the Delaware reservation, which in those days came close to
the Missouri River. Charlie, also, had gathered some facts about the
town, and he added that Quindaro was a good place to start from, going
westward. The party had laid in a stock of groceries--coffee, tea, and
other articles of that description--before leaving home. Now they
needed staple provisions, a few farming tools, a breaking-plough, and
some seed corn. Few thought of planting anything but corn; but the
thrifty settlers from Illinois knew the value of fresh vegetables, and
they were resolved to have "garden truck" just as soon as seeds could
be planted and brought to maturity.
"And side-meat?" asked Sandy, wonderingly, as he heard his father
inquiring the price of that article of food. Side-meat, in the South
and West, is the thin flank of a porker, salted and smoked after the
fashion of hams, and in those parts of the Southwest it was (and
probably is) the staple article of food among the people. It is sold
in long, unattractive-looking slabs; and when Sandy heard its name
mentioned, his disgust as well as his wonder was kindled.
"Side-meat?" he repeated, with a rising inflection. "Why, I thought we
were going to live on game,--birds and buffalo and the like!
Side-meat? Well, that makes me sick!"
The two men laughed, and Mr. Howell said,--
"Why, Sandy, you are bent on hunting and not on buckling down to farm
work. How do you suppose we are going to live if we have nothing to
eat but wild game that we kill, and breadstuffs and vegetables that we
buy?"
Sandy had thought that they might be able to step out into the woods
or prairie, between times, as it were, and knock down a few head of
game when the day's work was done, or had not begun. When he said as
much, the two heads of the party laughed again, and even Charlie
joined in the glee.
"My dear infant," said his father, seriously, but with a twinkle in
his eye, "game is not so plenty anywhere as that; and if it were, we
should soon tire of it. Now side-meat 'sticks to the ribs,' as the
people hereabouts will tell you, and it is the best thing to fall back
upon when fresh meat fails. We can't get along without it, and that is
a fact; hey, Charlie?"
The rest of the party saw the wisdom of this suggestion, and Sandy was
obliged to give up, then and there, his glowing views of a land so
teeming with game that one had only to go out with a rifle, or even a
club, and knock it over. But he mischievously insisted that if
side-meat did "stick to the ribs," as the Missourians declared, they
did not eat much of it, for, as a rule, the people whom they met were
a very lank and slab-sided lot. "Clay-eaters," their new acquaintance
from Quindaro said they were.
"Clay-eaters?" asked Charlie, with a puzzled look. "They are
clayey-looking in the face. But it can't be possible that they
actually eat clay?"
"Well, they do, and I have seen them chewing it. There is a fine, soft
clay found in these parts, and more especially south of here; it has a
greasy feeling, as if it was a fatty substance, and the natives eat it
just as they would candy. Why, I should think that it would form a
sand-bar inside of a man, after awhile; but they take to it just as
naturally!"
"If I have got to choose between side-meat and clay for a regular
diet," said Sandy, "give me side-meat every time."
That night, having made their plans to avoid the prying eyes of the
border-State men, who in great numbers were now coming in, well-armed
and looking somewhat grimly at the free-State men, the little party
crossed the river. Ten dollars, good United States money, was demanded
by the ferryman as the price of their passage; it looked like robbery,
but there was no other way of getting over the river and into the
Promised Land; so it was paid, with many a wrench of the patience of
the indignant immigrants; and they pitched their tent that night under
the stars and slept soundly on the soil of "bleeding Kansas."
Bright and early next morning, the boys were up and stirring, for now
was to begin their camp life. Hitherto, they had slept in their tent,
but had taken their meals at the farm-houses and small taverns of the
country through which they had passed. They would find few such
conveniences in the new country into which they had come, and they had
been warned that in Kansas the rule was "every man for himself."
They made sad work with their first breakfast in camp. Oscar had taken
a few lessons in cooking from his mother, before leaving home, and the
two men had had some experience in that line of duty when out on
hunting expeditious in Illinois, years before. So they managed to make
coffee, fry slices of side-meat, and bake a hoe-cake of Indian-corn
meal. "Hog and hominy," said Sandy's father. "That's the diet of the
country, and that is what we shall come to, and we might as well take
it first as last."
"There's worse provender than this, where there's none," said Mr.
Bryant, cheerfully; "and before we get through we shall be hungry more
than once for hog and hominy."
It was an enlivening sight that greeted the eyes of the newcomers as
they looked around upon the flat prairie that stretched along the
river-side. The tents of the immigrants glistened in the rising sun.
The smoke of many camp-fires arose on the summer air. Groups of men
were busily making preparations for their long tramp westward, and,
here and there, women and children were gathered around the
white-topped wagons, taking their early breakfast or getting ready for
the day's march. Here, too, could now be seen the rough and
surly-looking border men who were on the way to points along the route
that were to be occupied by them before too many free-State men should
come in. An election of some sort, the newcomers could not exactly
make out what, was to take place in a day or two, and the Missourians
whom they had seen flocking into Parkville were ready to vote as soon
as they got into the Territory.
Breakfast over, the boys sauntered around through the camps, viewing
the novel sights with vast amusement. It was like a militia muster at
home, except that the only soldier element they saw was the band of
rough-looking and rough-talking men who were bound to vote and fight
for slavery. They swaggered about with big pistols girt at their hips
and rifles over their shoulders, full-bearded and swarthy, each one a
captain apparently, all without much organization, but very serious in
their intention to vote and to fight. It really seemed as if they had
reached the fighting-ground at last.
"See here, daddy," said Oscar, as he came in from the camps when the
Dixon caravan was ready to move; "see what I found in this newspaper.
It is a piece of poetry, and a mighty fine piece, too"; and the boy
began to read some lines beginning thus,--
"We cross the prairie as of old
The pilgrims crossed the sea,
To make the West, as they the East,
The homestead of the free!"
"Oh, well; I can't bother about poetry, now," said the father,
hastily. "I have some prose work on hand, just about this time. I'm
trying to drive these pesky cattle, and I don't make a very good fist
at it. Your Uncle Aleck has gone on ahead, and left me to manage the
team; but it's new business to me."
"John G. Whittier is the name at the top of these verses. I've heard
of him. He's a regular-built poet,--lives somewhere down East."
"I can't help that, sonny; get on the other side of those steers, and
see if you can't gee them around. Dear, dear, they're dreadful
obstinate creatures!"
That night, however, when they were comfortably and safely camped in
Quindaro, amid the live-oaks and the tall sycamores that embowered the
pretty little town, Oscar again brought the newspaper to his father,
and, with kindling eyes, said,--
"Read it out, daddy; read the piece. Why, it was written just for us,
I do declare. It is called 'The Kansas Emigrants.' We are Kansas
Emigrants, aren't we?"
The father smiled kindly as he looked at the flushed face and bright
eyes of his boy, and took from him the paper folded to show the
verses. As he read, his eyes, too, flashed and his lip trembled.
"Listen to this!" he cried. "Listen to this! It is like a trumpet
call!" And with a voice quivering with emotion, he began the poem,--
"We cross the prairie as of old
The pilgrims crossed the sea,
To make the West, as they the East,
The homestead of the free!"
"Something has got into my eyes," said Mr. Howell, as the last stanza
was read. "Great Scott! though, how that does stir a man's blood!" And
he furtively wiped the moisture from his eyes. It was time to put out
the light and go to sleep, for the night now was well advanced. But
Mr. Bryant, thoroughly aroused, read and re-read the lines aloud.
[Illustration: IN CAMP AT QUINDARO. THE POEM OF "THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS."]
"Sing 'em," said his brother-in-law, jokingly. Bryant was a good
singer, and he at once tuned up with a fine baritone voice, recalling
a familiar tune that fitted the measure of the poem.
"Oh, come now, Uncle Charlie," cried Sandy, from his blankets in the
corner of the tent, "that's 'Old Dundee.' Can't you give us something
lively? Something not quite so solemn?"
"Not so solemn, my laddie? Don't you know that this is a solemn age we
are in, and a very solemn business we are on? You'll think so before
we get out of this Territory, or I am greatly mistaken."
"Sandy'll think it's solemn, when he has to trot over a piece of newly
broken prairie, carrying a pouchful of seed corn, dropping five grains
in each sod," said his father, laughing, as he blew out the candle.
"It's a good song; a bully good song," murmured the boy, turning over
to sleep. "But it ought to be sung to something with more of a
rig-a-jig-jig to it." So saying, he was off to the land of dreams.