Village life--A traveling photographer--On a country
road--Studies in color--Again among colliers--In sweet
content--A ferry romance.
Near Troy, Ind., Friday, June 1st.--Below Alton, the hills are not so
high as above. We have, however, the same thoroughly rustic landscape,
the same small farms on the bottoms and wretched cabins on the slopes,
the same frontier-like clearings thick with stumps, the same shabby
little villages, and frequent ox-bow windings of the generous stream,
with lovely vistas unfolding and dissolving with panoramic regularity.
It is not a region where houseboaters flourish--there is but one every
ten miles or so; as for steamboats, we see on an average one a day,
while two or three usually pass us in the night.
A dry, unpainted little place is Alton, Ind., with three
down-at-the-heel shops, a tavern, a saloon, and a few dwellings; there
was no bread obtainable here, for love or money, and we were fain to
be content with a bag of crackers from the postoffice grocery. The
promised photographer, who appears to be a rapid traveler, was said to
have gone on to Concordia, eight miles below.
Deep Water Landing, Ind. (676 miles), is a short row of new,
whitewashed houses, with a great board sign displaying the name of the
hamlet, doubtless to attract the attention of pilots. A rude little
show-case, nailed up beside the door of the house at the head of
the landing-path, contains tempting samples of crockery and tinware.
Apparently some enterprising soul is trying to grow a town here, on
this narrow ledge of clay, with his landing and his shop as a nucleus.
But it is an unlikely spot, and I doubt if his "boom" will develop to
the corner-lot stage.
Rono, Ind., a mile below, with its limewashed buildings set in a bower
of trees, at the base of a bald bluff, is a rather pretty study
in gray and green and white. The most notable feature is a little
school-house-like Masonic hall set high on a stone foundation, with
a steep outer stairway--which gives one an impression that Rono is a
victim of floods, and that the brethren occasionally come in boats to
lodge-meetings.
Concordia, Ky. (681 miles), rests on the summit of a steep clay bank,
from which men were loading a barge with bark. Great piles of blocks,
for staves, ornamented the crest of the rise--a considerable industry
for these parts, we were told. But the photographer, whom we were
chasing, had "taken" every Concordian who wished his services, and
moved on to Derby, another Kentucky village, which at last we found,
six miles father down the river.
The principal occupation of the people of Derby is getting out timber
from the hillside forests, six to ten miles in the interior. Oak, elm,
and sycamore railway-ties are the specialty, these being worth twenty
cents each when landed upon the wharf. A few months ago, Derby was
completely destroyed by fire, but, although the timber business is on
the wane here, much of the place was rebuilt on the old foundations;
hence the fresh, unpainted buildings, with battlement fronts, which,
with the prevalence of open-door saloons and a woodsy swagger on the
part of the inhabitants, give the place a breezy, frontier aspect now
seldom to be met with this side of the Rockies.
Here at last was the traveling photographer. His tent, flapping loudly
in the wind, occupied an empty lot in the heart of the village--a
saloon on either side, and a lumberman's boarding house across the
way, where the "artist" was at dinner, pending which I waited for him
at the door of his canvas gallery. He evidently seeks to magnify
his calling, does this raw youth of the camera, by affecting what he
conceives to be the traditional garb of the artistic Bohemian, but
which resembles more closely the costume of the minstrel stage--a
battered silk hat, surmounting flowing locks glistening with hair-oil;
a loose velveteen jacket, over a gay figured vest; and a great brass
watch-chain, from which dangle silver coins. As this grotesque dandy,
evidently not long from his native village, came mincing across the
road in patent-leather slippers, smoking a cigarette, with one thumb
in an arm-hole of his vest, and the other hand twirling an incipient
mustache, he was plainly conscious of creating something of a swell in
Derby.
It was a crazy little dark-room to which I was shown--a portable
affair, much like a coffin-case, which I expected momentarily to
upset as I stood within, and be smothered in a cloud of ill-smelling
chemicals. However, with care I finally emerged without accident, and
sufficiently compensated the artist, who seemed not over-favorable
to amateur competition, although he chatted freely enough about his
business. It generally took him ten days, he said, to "finish" a
town of five or six hundred inhabitants, like Derby. He traveled on
steamers with his tenting outfit, but next season hoped to have money
enough to "do the thing in style," in a houseboat of his own, an
establishment which would cost say four hundred dollars; then, in the
winter, he could beach himself at some fair-sized town, and perhaps
make his board by running a local gallery, taking to the water again
on the earliest spring "fresh." "I could live like a fight'n' cock
then, cap'n, yew jist bet yer bottom dollar!"
The temperature mounted with the progress of the day; and, the wind
dying down, the atmosphere was oppressive. By the time Stephensport,
Ky. (695 miles), was reached, in the middle of the afternoon, the sun
was beating fiercely upon the glassy flood, and our awning came again
into play, although it could not save us from the annoyance of the
reflection. The barren clay bank at the mouth of Sinking Creek, upon
which lies Stephensport, seemed fairly ablaze with heat, as I went up
into the straggling hamlet to seek for supplies. There were no eggs
to be had here; but, at last, milk was found in the farther end of the
village, at a modest little cottage quite embowered in roses, with
two century plants in tubs in the back-yard, and a trim fruit and
vegetable garden to the rear of that, enclosed in palings. I remained
a few minutes to chat with the little housewife, who knows her roses
well, and is versed in the gentle art of horticulture. But her horizon
is painfully narrow--first and dearest, the plants about her, which is
not so bad; in a larger way, Stephensport and its petty affairs; but
beyond that very little, and that little vague.
It is ever thus, in such far-away, side-tracked villages as this--the
world lies in the basin of the hills which these people see from their
doors; if they have something to love and do for, as this good woman
has in her bushes, seeds, and bulbs, then may they dwell happily in
rustic obscurity; but where, as is more common, the small-beer of
neighborhood gossip is their meat and drink, there are no folk on the
footstool more wretched than the denizens of a dead little hamlet like
Stephensport.
We are housed this night on the Kentucky side, a mile-and-a-half above
Cloverport, whose half-dozen lights are glimmering in the stream. In
the gloaming, while dinner was being prepared, a ragged but sturdy
wanderer came into camp. He was, he said, a mountaineer looking for
work on the bottom farms; heretofore he had, when he wanted it, always
found it; but this season no one appeared to have any money to expend
for labor, and it seemed likely he would be obliged to return home
without receiving an offer. We made the stranger no offer of a seat
at our humble board, having no desire that he pass the night in
our neighborhood; for darkness was coming on apace, and, if he long
tarried, the woodland road would be as black as a pocket before he
could reach Cloverport, his alleged destination. So starting him off
with a biscuit or two, he was soon on his way toward the village,
whistling a lively tune.
* * * * *
Crooked Creek, Ind., Saturday, 2d.--We had but fairly got to bed last
night, after our late dinner, when the heavens suddenly darkened,
fierce gusts of wind shook the tent violently, and then rain fell in
blinding sheets. For a time it was lively work for the Doctor and me,
tightening guy-ropes and ditching in the soft sand, for we were in
an exposed position, catching the full force of the storm. At last,
everything secured, we in serenity slept it out, awakening to find
a beautiful morning, the grape-perfumed air as clear as crystal,
the outlines of woods and hills and streams standing out with sharp
definition, and over all a hushed charm most soothing to the spirit.
Cloverport (705 miles) is a typical Kentucky town, of somewhat less
than four thousand inhabitants. The wharf-boat, which runs up and down
an iron tramway, according to the height of the flood, was swarming
with negroes, watching with keen delight the departure of the "E. D.
Rogan," as she noisily backed out into the river and scattered the
crowd with great showers of spray from her gigantic stern-wheel. It
was a busy scene on board--negro roustabouts shipping the gang-plank,
and singing in a low pitch an old-time plantation melody; stokers,
stripped to the waist, shoveling coal into the gaping furnaces;
chambermaids hanging the ship's linen out to dry; passengers crowded
by the shore rail, on the main deck; the bustling mate shouting
orders, apparently for the benefit of landsmen, for no one on board
appeared to heed him; and high up, in front of the pilot-house, the
spruce captain, in gold-laced cap, and glass in hand, as immovable as
the Sphinx.
At the head of the slope were a picturesque medley of colored folk, of
true Southern plantation types, so seldom seen north of Dixie. Two
wee picaninnies, drawn in an express cart by a half-dozen other sable
elfs, attracted our attention, as W---- and I went up-town for our
day's marketing. We stopped to take a snap-shot at them, to the
intense satisfaction of the little kink-haired mother of the twins,
who, barring her blue calico gown, looked as if she might have just
stepped out of a Zulu group.
Cloverport has brick-works, gas wells, a flouring-mill, and other
industries. The streets are unkempt, as in most Kentucky towns, and
mules attached to crazy little carts are the chief beasts of burden;
but the shops are well-stocked; there were many farmers in town, on
horse and mule back, doing their Saturday shopping; and an air of
business confidence prevails.
In this district, coal-mines again appear, with their riverside
tipples, and their offal defiling the banks. In general, these reaches
have many of the aspects of the Monongahela, although the hills are
lower, and mining is on a smaller scale. Cannelton, Ind. (717 miles),
is the headquarters of the American Cannel Coal Co.; there are, also,
woolen and cotton mills, sewer-pipe factories, and potteries. W----
and I went up into the town, on an errand for supplies,--we distribute
our small patronage, for the sake of frequently going ashore,--and
were interested in noting the cheery tone of the business men, who
reported that the financial depression, noticeable elsewhere in the
Ohio Valley, has practically been unfelt here. Hawesville, Ky., just
across the river, has a similarly prosperous look, but we did not
row across to inspect it at close range. Tell City, Ind., three miles
below, is another flourishing factory town, whose wharf-boat was the
scene of much bustle. Four miles still lower down lies the sleepy
little Indiana village of Troy, which appears to have profited nothing
from having lively neighbors.
From the neighborhood of Derby, the environing hills had, as
we proceeded, been lessening in height, although still ruggedly
beautiful. A mile or two below Troy, both ranges suddenly roll back
into the interior, leaving broad bottoms on either hand, occasionally
edged with high clay banks, through which the river has cut its
devious way. At other times, these bottoms slope gently to the beach
and everywhere are cultivated with such care that often no room is
left for the willow fringe, which heretofore has been an ever-present
feature of the landscape. Hereafter, to the mouth, we shall for the
most part row between parallel walls of clay, with here and there
a bankside ledge of rock and shale, and now and then a cragged spur
running out to meet the river. We have now entered the great corn and
tobacco belt of the Lower Ohio, the region of annual overflow, where
the towns seek the highlands, and the bottom farmers erect their few
crude buildings on posts, prepared in case of exceptional flood to
take to boats.
The prevalent eagerness on the part of farmers to obtain the utmost
from their land made it difficult, this evening, to find a proper
camping-place. We finally found a narrow triangle of clay terrace,
in Indiana, at the mouth of Crooked Creek (727 miles), where not long
since had tarried a houseboater engaged in making rustic furniture. It
is a pretty little bit, in a group of big willows and sycamores, and
would be comfortable but for the sand-flies, which for the first time
give us annoyance. The creek itself, some four rods wide, and overhung
with stately trees, winds gracefully through the rich bottom; we have
found it a charming water to explore, being able to proceed for nearly
a mile through lovely little wide-spreads abounding in lilies and
sweet with the odor of grape-blossoms.
Across the river, at Emmerick's Landing,--a little cluster of
unpainted cabins,--lies the white barge of a photographer, just such
a home as the Derby artist covets. The Ohio is here about half-a-mile
wide, but high-pitched voices of people on the opposite bank are
plainly heard across the smooth sounding-board; and in the quiet
evening air comes to us the "chuck-chuck" of oars nearly a mile away.
Following a torrid afternoon, with exasperating headwinds, this cool,
fresh atmosphere, in the long twilight, is inspiring. Overhead is the
slender streak of the moon's first quarter, its reflection shimmering
in the broad and placid stream rushing noiselessly by us to the sea.
In blissful content we sit upon the bank, and drink in the glories of
the night. The days of our pilgrimage are nearing their end, but our
enthusiasm for this _al fresco_ life is in no measure abating. That we
might ever thus dream and drift upon the river of life, far from the
labored strivings of the world, is our secret wish, to-night.
We had long been sitting thus, having silent communion with our
thoughts, when the Boy, his little head resting on W----'s shoulder,
broke the spell by murmuring from the fullness of his heart, "Mother,
why cannot we keep on doing this, always?"
* * * * *
Yellowbank Island, Sunday, June 3d.--Pilgrim still attracts more
attention than her passengers. When we stop at the village wharfs,
or grate our keel upon some rustic landing, it is not long before
the Doctor, who now always remains with the boat, no matter who goes
ashore, is surrounded by an admiring group, who rap Pilgrim on the
ribs, try to lift her by the bow, and study her graceful lines with
the air of connoisseurs. Barefooted men fishing on the shores, in
broad straw hats, and blue jeans, invariably "pass the time o' day"
with us as we glide by, crying out as a parting salute, "Ye've a honey
skiff, thar!" or, "Right smart skiff, thet yere!"
We have many long, dreary reaches to-day. Clay banks twelve to twenty
feet in height, and growing taller as the water recedes, rise sheer on
either side. Fringing the top of each is often a row of locusts, whose
roots in a feeble way hold the soil; but the river cuts in at the
base, wherever the changing current impinges on the shore, and at
low water great slices, with a gurgling splash, fall into the
stream, which now is of the color of dull gold, from the clay held in
solution. Often, ruins of buildings may be seen upon the brink,
that have collapsed from this undercut of the fickle flood; and many
others, still inhabited, are in dangerous proximity to the edge, only
biding their time.
This morning, we passed the Indiana hamlets of Lewisport (731 miles)
and Grand View (736 miles), and by noon were at Rockport (741 miles),
a smart little city of three thousand souls, romantically perched upon
a great rock, which on the right bank rises abruptly from the wide
expanse of bottom. From the river, there is little to be seen of
Rockport save two wharves,--one above, the other below, the bold cliff
which springs sheer for a hundred feet above the stream,--two angling
roads leading up into the town, a house or two on the edge of the hill
and a huge water-tower crowning all.
A few miles below, we ran through a narrow channel, a few rods
wide, separating an elongated island from the Indiana shore. It much
resembles the small tributary streams, with a lush undergrowth of
weeds down to the water's edge, and arched with monster sycamores,
elms, maples and persimmons. Frequently had we seen skiffs upon the
shore, arranged with stern paddle-wheels, turned by levers operated by
men standing or sitting in the boat. But we had seen none in operation
until, shooting down this side channel, we met such a craft coming up,
manned by two fellows, who seemed to be having a treadmill task of it;
they assured us, however, that when a man was used to manipulating the
levers he found it easier than rowing, especially in ascending stream.
Yellowbank Island, our camp to-night, lies nearest the Indiana shore,
with Owensboro, Ky. (749 miles), just across the way. We have had
no more beautiful home on our long pilgrimage than this sandy islet,
heavily grown to stately willows. While the others were preparing
dinner, I pulled across the rapid current to an Indiana ferry-landing,
where there is a row of mean frame cabins, like the negro quarters of
a Southern farm, all elevated on posts some four feet above the level.
A half-dozen families live there, all of them small tenant farmers,
save the ferryman--a strapping, good-natured fellow, who appears to be
the nabob of the community.
Several hollow sycamore stumps house sows and their litters; but the
only cow in the neighborhood is owned by a young man who, when I came
up, was watering some refractory mules at a pump-trough. He paused
long enough to summon Boss and milk a half-gallon into my pail,
accepting my dime with a degree of thankfulness which was quite
unnecessary, considering that it was _quid pro quo_. Tobacco is a
more important crop than corn hereabout, he said; farmers are rather
impatiently waiting for rain, to set out the young plants. His only
outbuilding is a monster corn-crib, set high on posts--the airy
basement, no better than an open shed, serving for a stable; during
the few weeks of severe winter weather, horses and cow are removed
to the main floor, and canvas nailed around the sides to keep out
the wind. Even this slight protection is not vouchsafed stock by all
planters; the majority of them appear to provide only rain shelters,
and even these can be of slight avail in a driving storm.
Later, in the failing light, W---- and I pulled together over to the
"cracker" settlement, seeking drinking-water. A stout young man was
seated on the end of the ferry barge, talking earnestly with the
ferryman's daughter, a not unattractive girl, but pale and thin, as
these women are apt to be. Evidently they are lovers, and not ashamed
of it, for they gave us a friendly smile as we knotted our painter to
the barge-rail, and expressed great interest in Pilgrim, she being of
a pattern new to them.
We are in a noisy corner of the world. Over on the Indiana bottom,
a squeaky fiddle is grinding out dance-tunes, hymns and ballads with
charming indifference. We thought we detected in a high-pitched "Annie
Laurie" the voice of the ferryman's daughter. There seems, too, to be
a deal of rowing on the river, evidently Owensboro folk getting back
to town from a day in the country, and country folk hieing home after
a day in the city. The ferryman is in much demand, judging from the
frequent ringing of his bell,--one on either bank, set between two
tall posts, with a rope dangling from the arm. At early dusk, the
cracked bell of the Owensboro Bethel resounded harshly in our ears, as
it advertised an evening service for the floating population; and
now the wheezy strains of a melodeon tell us that, although we stayed
away, doubtless others have been attracted thither. The sepulchral
roars of passing steamers echo along the wooded shore, the night wind
rustles the tree-tops, Owensboro dogs are much awake, and the electric
lamps of the city throw upon our canvas screen the fantastic shadows
of leaves and dancing boughs.