Produced by Charles Keller, David Widger, and Robert Homa
THE CROSSING
By Winston Churchill
CONTENTS
BOOK I. THE BORDERLAND
I. THE BLUE WALL
II. WARS AND RUMORS OF WARS
III. CHARLESTOWN
IV. TEMPLE BOW
V. CRAM’S HELL
VI. MAN PROPOSES, BUT GOD DISPOSES
VII. IN SIGHT OF THE BLUE WALL ONCE MORE
VIII. THE NOLLICHUCKY TRACE
IX. ON THE WILDERNESS TRAIL
X. HARRODSTOWN
XI. FRAGMENTARY
XII. THE CAMPAIGN BEGINS
XIII. KASKASKIA
XIV. HOW THE KASKASKIANS WERE MADE CITIZENS
XV. DAYS OF TRIAL
XVI. DAVY GOES TO CAHOKIA
XVII. THE SACRIFICE
XVIII. “AN’ YE HAD BEEN WHERE I HAD BEEN”
XIX. THE HAIR BUYER TRAPPED
XX. THE CAMPAIGN ENDS
BOOK II. FLOTSAM AND JETSAM
I. IN THE CABIN
II. “THE BEGGARS ARE COME TO TOWN”
III. WE GO TO DANVILLE
IV. I CROSS THE MOUNTAINS ONCE MORE
V. I MEET AN OLD BEDFELLOW
VI. THE WIDOW BROWN’S
VII. I MEET A HERO
VIII. TO ST. LOUIS
IX. “CHERCHEZ LA FEMME”
X. THE KEEL BOAT
XI. THE STRANGE CITY
XII. LES ISLES
XIII. MONSIEUR AUGUSTE ENTRAPPED
XIV. RETRIBUTION
BOOK III. LOUISIANA
I. THE RIGHTS OF MAN
II. THE HOUSE ABOVE THE FALLS
III. LOUISVILLE CELEBRATES
IV. OF A SUDDEN RESOLUTION
V. THE HOUSE OF THE HONEYCOMBED TILES
VI. MADAME LA VICOMTESSE
VII. THE DISPOSAL OF THE SIEUR DE ST. GRE
VIII. AT LAMARQUE’S
IX. MONSIEUR LE BARON
X. THE SCOURGE
XI. “IN THE MIDST OF LIFE”
XII. VISIONS, AND AN AWAKENINGS
XIII. A MYSTERY
XIV. “TO UNPATHED WATERS, UNDREAMED SHORES”
XV. AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF A MAN
AFTERWORD
THE CROSSING
BOOK I. THE BORDERLAND
CHAPTER I. THE BLUE WALL
I was born under the Blue Ridge, and under that side which is blue in
the evening light, in a wild land of game and forest and rushing waters.
There, on the borders of a creek that runs into the Yadkin River, in a
cabin that was chinked with red mud, I came into the world a subject of
King George the Third, in that part of his realm known as the province
of North Carolina.
The cabin reeked of corn-pone and bacon, and the odor of pelts. It had
two shakedowns, on one of which I slept under a bearskin. A rough stone
chimney was reared outside, and the fireplace was as long as my father
was tall. There was a crane in it, and a bake kettle; and over it great
buckhorns held my father’s rifle when it was not in use. On other horns
hung jerked bear’s meat and venison hams, and gourds for drinking
cups, and bags of seed, and my father’s best hunting shirt; also, in a
neglected corner, several articles of woman’s attire from pegs. These
once belonged to my mother. Among them was a gown of silk, of a fine,
faded pattern, over which I was wont to speculate. The women at the
Cross-Roads, twelve miles away, were dressed in coarse butternut wool
and huge sunbonnets. But when I questioned my father on these matters he
would give me no answers.
My father was--how shall I say what he was? To this day I can only
surmise many things of him. He was a Scotchman born, and I know now that
he had a slight Scotch accent. At the time of which I write, my early
childhood, he was a frontiersman and hunter. I can see him now, with his
hunting shirt and leggings and moccasins; his powder horn, engraved with
wondrous scenes; his bullet pouch and tomahawk and hunting knife. He
was a tall, lean man with a strange, sad face. And he talked little save
when he drank too many “horns,” as they were called in that country.
These lapses of my father’s were a perpetual source of wonder to
me,--and, I must say, of delight. They occurred only when a passing
traveller who hit his fancy chanced that way, or, what was almost as
rare, a neighbor. Many a winter night I have lain awake under the
skins, listening to a flow of language that held me spellbound, though I
understood scarce a word of it.
“Virtuous and vicious every man must be,
Few in the extreme, but all in a degree.”
The chance neighbor or traveller was no less struck with wonder. And
many the time have I heard the query, at the Cross-Roads and elsewhere,
“Whar Alec Trimble got his larnin’?”
The truth is, my father was an object of suspicion to the frontiersmen.
Even as a child I knew this, and resented it. He had brought me up in
solitude, and I was old for my age, learned in some things far beyond
my years, and ignorant of others I should have known. I loved the man
passionately. In the long winter evenings, when the howl of wolves and
“painters” rose as the wind lulled, he taught me to read from the Bible
and the “Pilgrim’s Progress.” I can see his long, slim fingers on the
page. They seemed but ill fitted for the life he led.
The love of rhythmic language was somehow born into me, and many’s the
time I have held watch in the cabin day and night while my father was
away on his hunts, spelling out the verses that have since become part
of my life.
As I grew older I went with him into the mountains, often on his back;
and spent the nights in open camp with my little moccasins drying at the
blaze. So I learned to skin a bear, and fleece off the fat for oil with
my hunting knife; and cure a deerskin and follow a trail. At seven I
even shot the long rifle, with a rest. I learned to endure cold and
hunger and fatigue and to walk in silence over the mountains, my father
never saying a word for days at a spell. And often, when he opened his
mouth, it would be to recite a verse of Pope’s in a way that moved me
strangely. For a poem is not a poem unless it be well spoken.
In the hot days of summer, over against the dark forest the bright green
of our little patch of Indian corn rippled in the wind. And towards
night I would often sit watching the deep blue of the mountain wall and
dream of the mysteries of the land that lay beyond. And by chance, one
evening as I sat thus, my father reading in the twilight, a man stood
before us. So silently had he come up the path leading from the brook
that we had not heard him. Presently my father looked up from his
book, but did not rise. As for me, I had been staring for some time in
astonishment, for he was a better-looking man than I had ever seen. He
wore a deerskin hunting shirt dyed black, but, in place of a coonskin
cap with the tail hanging down, a hat. His long rifle rested on the
ground, and he held a roan horse by the bridle.
“Howdy, neighbor?” said he.
I recall a fear that my father would not fancy him. In such cases he
would give a stranger food, and leave him to himself. My father’s whims
were past understanding. But he got up.
“Good evening,” said he.
The visitor looked a little surprised, as I had seen many do, at my
father’s accent.
“Neighbor,” said he, “kin you keep me over night?”
“Come in,” said my father.
We sat down to our supper of corn and beans and venison, of all of which
our guest ate sparingly. He, too, was a silent man, and scarcely a word
was spoken during the meal. Several times he looked at me with such a
kindly expression in his blue eyes, a trace of a smile around his broad
mouth, that I wished he might stay with us always. But once, when my
father said something about Indians, the eyes grew hard as flint. It was
then I remarked, with a boy’s wonder, that despite his dark hair he had
yellow eyebrows.
After supper the two men sat on the log step, while I set about the task
of skinning the deer my father had shot that day. Presently I felt a
heavy hand on my shoulder.
“What’s your name, lad?” he said.
I told him Davy.
“Davy, I’ll larn ye a trick worth a little time,” said he, whipping
out a knife. In a trice the red carcass hung between the forked stakes,
while I stood with my mouth open. He turned to me and laughed gently.
“Some day you’ll cross the mountains and skin twenty of an evening,” he
said. “Ye’ll make a woodsman sure. You’ve got the eye, and the hand.”
This little piece of praise from him made me hot all over.
“Game rare?” said he to my father.
“None sae good, now,” said my father.
“I reckon not. My cabin’s on Beaver Creek some forty mile above, and
game’s going there, too.”
“Settlements,” said my father. But presently, after a few whiffs of his
pipe, he added, “I hear fine things of this land across the mountains,
that the Indians call the Dark and Bluidy Ground.”
“And well named,” said the stranger.
“But a brave country,” said my father, “and all tramped down with game.
I hear that Daniel Boone and others have gone into it and come back with
marvellous tales. They tell me Boone was there alone three months. He’s
saething of a man. D’ye ken him?”
The ruddy face of the stranger grew ruddier still.
“My name’s Boone,” he said.
“What!” cried my father, “it wouldn’t be Daniel?”
“You’ve guessed it, I reckon.”
My father rose without a word, went into the cabin, and immediately
reappeared with a flask and a couple of gourds, one of which he handed
to our visitor.
“Tell me aboot it,” said he.
That was the fairy tale of my childhood. Far into the night I lay on the
dewy grass listening to Mr. Boone’s talk. It did not at first flow in a
steady stream, for he was not a garrulous man, but my father’s questions
presently fired his enthusiasm. I recall but little of it, being so
small a lad, but I crept closer and closer until I could touch this
superior being who had been beyond the Wall. Marco Polo was no greater
wonder to the Venetians than Boone to me.
He spoke of leaving wife and children, and setting out for the Unknown
with other woodsmen. He told how, crossing over our blue western wall
into a valley beyond, they found a “Warrior’s Path” through a gap across
another range, and so down into the fairest of promised lands. And as
he talked he lost himself in the tale of it, and the very quality of his
voice changed. He told of a land of wooded hill and pleasant vale, of
clear water running over limestone down to the great river beyond, the
Ohio--a land of glades, the fields of which were pied with flowers of
wondrous beauty, where roamed the buffalo in countless thousands, where
elk and deer abounded, and turkeys and feathered game, and bear in the
tall brakes of cane. And, simply, he told how, when the others had left
him, he stayed for three months roaming the hills alone with Nature
herself.
“But did you no’ meet the Indians?” asked my father.
“I seed one fishing on a log once,” said our visitor, laughing, “but he
fell into the water. I reckon he was drowned.”
My father nodded comprehendingly,--even admiringly.
“And again!” said he.
“Wal,” said Mr. Boone, “we fell in with a war party of Shawnees going
back to their lands north of the great river. The critters took away all
we had. It was hard,” he added reflectively; “I had staked my fortune
on the venter, and we’d got enough skins to make us rich. But, neighbor,
there is land enough for you and me, as black and rich as Canaan.”
“‘The Lord is my shepherd,’” said my father, lapsing into verse.
“‘The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He leadeth me into green
pastures, and beside still waters.’”
For a time they were silent, each wrapped in his own thought, while the
crickets chirped and the frogs sang. From the distant forest came the
mournful hoot of an owl.
“And you are going back?” asked my father, presently.
“Aye, that I am. There are many families on the Yadkin below going, too.
And you, neighbor, you might come with us. Davy is the boy that would
thrive in that country.”
My father did not answer. It was late indeed when we lay down to rest,
and the night I spent between waking and dreaming of the wonderland
beyond the mountains, hoping against hope that my father would go. The
sun was just flooding the slopes when our guest arose to leave, and my
father bade him God-speed with a heartiness that was rare to him. But,
to my bitter regret, neither spoke of my father’s going. Being a man of
understanding, Mr. Boone knew it were little use to press. He patted me
on the head.
“You’re a wise lad, Davy,” said he. “I hope we shall meet again.”
He mounted his roan and rode away down the slope, waving his hand to
us. And it was with a heavy heart that I went to feed our white mare,
whinnying for food in the lean-to.