THE CAMP.
Ignorant, as we have already said, of his late most providential escape
from the weapon of his implacable enemy, Ralph Colleton was borne
forward by his affrighted steed with a degree of rapidity which entirely
prevented his rider from remarking any of the objects around him, or,
indeed, as the moon began to wane amid a clustering body of clouds, of
determining positively whether he were still in the road or not. The
_trace_ (as public roads are called in that region) had been rudely cut
out by some of the earlier travellers through the Indian country, merely
_traced_ out--and hence, perhaps, the term--by a _blaze_, or white spot,
made upon the trees by hewing from them the bark; which badge, repeated
in succession upon those growing immediately upon the line chosen for
the destined road, indicated its route to the wayfarer. It had never
been much travelled, and from the free use at the present time of other
and more direct courses, it was left almost totally unemployed, save by
those living immediately in its neighborhood. It had, therefore, become,
at the time of which we speak, what, in backwood phrase, is known as a
_blind-path_.
Such being the case, it is not difficult to imagine that, when able to
restrain his horse, Ralph, as he feared, found himself entirely out of
its guidance--wandering without direction among the old trees of the
forest. Still, as for the night, now nearly over, he could have no
distinct point in view, and saw just as little reason to go back as
forward, he gave himself but little time for scruple or hesitation.
Resolutely, though with a cautious motion, he pricked his steed forward
through the woods, accommodating his philosophy, as well as he could, to
the various interruptions which the future, as if to rival the past,
seemed to have treasured up in store for him.
He had not proceeded far in this manner when he caught the dim rays of a
distant fire, flickering and ascending among the trees to the left of
the direction he was taking. The blaze had something in it excessively
cheering, and, changing his course, he went forward under its guidance.
In this effort, he stumbled upon something like a path, which, pursuing,
brought him at length to a small and turbid creek, into which he plunged
fearlessly, and soon found himself in swimming water. The ford had been
little used, and the banks were steep, so that he got out with
difficulty upon the opposite side. Having done so, his eye was enabled
to take a full view of the friendly fire which had just attracted his
regard, and which he soon made out to proceed from the encampment of a
wagoner, such as may be seen every day, or every night, in the wild
woods of the southern country.
He was emigrating, with all his goods and gods, to that wonderfully
winning region, in the estimation of this people, the valley of the
Mississippi. The emigrant was a stout, burly, bluff old fellow, with
full round cheeks, a quick, twinkling eye, and limbs rather Herculean
than human. He might have been fifty-five years or so; and his two sons,
one of them a man grown, the other a tall and goodly youth of eighteen,
promised well to be just such vigorous and healthy-looking personages as
their father. The old woman, by whom we mean--in the manner of speech
common to the same class and region--to indicate the spouse of the
wayfarer, and mother of the two youths, was busied about the fire,
boiling a pot of coffee, and preparing the family repast for the night.
A somewhat late hour for supper and such employment, thought our
wanderer; but the difficulty soon explained itself in the condition of
their wagon, and the conversation which ensued among the travellers.
There was yet another personage in the assembly, who must be left to
introduce himself to the reader.
The _force_ of the traveller--for such is the term by which the number
of his slaves are understood--was small, consisting of some six
_workers_, and three or four little negro children asleep under the
wagon. The workers were occupied at a little distance, in replacing
boxes, beds, and some household trumpery, which had been taken out of
the wagon, to enable them to effect its release from the slough in which
it had cast one of its wheels, and broken its axle, and the restoration
of which had made their supper so late in the night. The heavier
difficulties of their labor had been got over, and with limbs warmed and
chafed by the extra exercise they had undergone, the whites had thrown
themselves under a tree, at a little distance from the fire at which the
supper was in preparation, while a few pine torches, thrown together,
gave them sufficient light to read and remark the several countenances
of their group.
"Well, by dogs, we've had a tough 'bout of it, boys; and, hark'ye,
strannger, gi' us your hand. I don't know what we should have done
without you, for I never seed man handle a little poleaxe as you did
that same affair of your'n. You must have spent, I reckon, a pretty
smart time at the use of it, now, didn't ye?"
To this speech of the farmer, a ready reply was given by the stranger,
in the identical voice and language of our old acquaintance, the pedler,
Jared Bunce, of whom, and of whose stock in trade, the reader will
probably have some recollection.
"Well, now, I guess, friend, you an't far wide of your reckoning. I've
been a matter of some fifteen or twenty years knocking about, off and
on, in one way or another, with this same instrument, and pretty's the
service now, I tell ye, that it's done me in that bit of time."
"No doubt, no doubt; but what's your trade, if I may be so bold, that
made you larn the use of it so nicely?"
"Oh, what--my trade? Why, to say the truth, I never was brought up to
any trade in particular, but I am a pretty slick hand, now, I tell you,
at all of them. I've been in my time a little of a farmer, a little of a
merchant, a little of a sailor, and, somehow or other, a little of
everything, and all sort of things. My father was jest like myself, and
swore, before I was born, that I should be born jest like him--and so I
was. Never were two black peas more alike. He was a 'cute old fellow,
and swore he'd make me so too--and so he did. You know how he did
that?--now, I'll go a York shilling against a Louisiana bit, that you
can't tell to save you."
"Why, no, I can't--let's hear," was the response of the wagoner,
somewhat astounded by the volubility of his new acquaintance.
"Well, then, I'll tell you. He sent me away, to make my fortin, and git
my edication, 'mongst them who was 'cute themselves, and maybe that an't
the best school for larning a simple boy ever went to. It was sharp edge
agin sharp edge. It was the very making of me, so far as I was made."
"Well, now, that is a smart way, I should reckon, to get one's
edication. And in this way I suppose you larned how to chop with your
little poleaxe. Dogs! but you've made me as smart a looking axle as I
ever tacked to my team."
"I tell you, friend, there's nothing like sich an edication. It does
everything for a man, and he larns to make everything out of nothing. I
could make my bread where these same Indians wouldn't find the skin of a
hoe-cake; and in these woods, or in the middle of the sea, t'ant
anything for me to say I can always fish up some notion that will sell
in the market."
"Well, now, that's wonderful, strannger, and I should like to see how
you would do it."
"You can't do nothing, no how, friend, unless you begin at the
beginning. You'll have to begin when you're jest a mere boy, and set
about getting your edication as I got mine. There's no two ways about
it. It won't come to you; you must go to it. When you're put out into
the wide world, and have no company and no acquaintance, why, what are
you to do? Suppose, now, when your wagon mired down, I had not come to
your help, and cut out your wood, and put in the spoke, wouldn't you
have had to do it yourself?"
"Yes--to be sure; but then I couldn't have done it in a day. I an't
handy at these things."
"Well, that was jest the way with me when I was a boy. I had nobody to
help me out of the mud--nobody to splice my spokes, or assist me any
how, and so I larned to do it myself. And now, would you think it, I'm
sometimes glad of a little turn-over, or an accident, jest that I may
keep my hand in and not forget to be able to help myself or my
neighbors."
"Well, you're a cur'ous person, and I'd like to hear something more
about you. But it's high time we should wet our whistles, and it's but
dry talking without something to wash a clear way for the slack. So,
boys, be up, and fish up the jemmi-john--I hope it hain't been thumped
to bits in the rut. If it has, I shall be in a tearing passion."
"Well, now, that won't be reasonable, seeing that it's no use, and jest
wasting good breath that might bring a fair price in the market."
"What, not get in a passion if all the whiskey's gone? That won't do,
strannger, and though you have helped me out of the ditch, by, dogs, no
man shall prevent me from getting in a passion if I choose it."
"Oh, to be sure, friend--you an't up to my idee. I didn't know that it
was for the good it did you that you got in a passion. I am clear that
when a man feels himself better from a passion, he oughtn't to be shy in
getting into it. Though that wasn't a part of my edication, yet I guess,
if such a thing would make me feel more comfortable, I'd get in a
passion fifty times a day."
"Well, now, strannger, you talk like a man of sense. 'Drot the man, says
I, who hain't the courage to get in a passion! None but a miserable,
shadow-skinning Yankee would refuse to get in a passion when his jug of
whiskey was left in the road!"
"A-hem--" coughed the dealer in small wares--the speech of the old
wagoner grating harshly upon his senses; for if the Yankee be proud of
anything, it is of his country--its enterprise, its institutions; and of
these, perhaps, he has more true and unqualified reason to be pleased
and proud than any other one people on the face of the globe. He did not
relish well the sitting quietly under the harsh censure of his
companion, who seemed to regard the existence of a genuine emotion among
the people down east as a manifest absurdity; and was thinking to come
out with a defence, in detail, of the pretensions of New England, when,
prudence having first taken a survey of the huge limbs of the wagoner,
and calling to mind the fierce prejudices of the uneducated southrons
generally against all his tribe, suggested the convenient propriety of
an evasive reply.
"A-hem--" repeated the Yankee, the _argumentum ad hominem_ still
prominent in his eyes--"well, now, I take it, friend, there's no love to
spare for the people you speak of down in these parts. They don't seem
to smell at all pleasant in this country."
"No, I guess not, strannger, as how should they--a mean, tricky,
catchpenny, skulking set--that makes money out of everybody, and hain't
the spirit to spend it! I do hate them, now, worse than a polecat!"
"Well, now, friend, that's strange. If you were to travel for a spell,
down about Boston or Salem in Massachusetts, or at Meriden in
Connecticut, you'd hear tell of the Yankees quite different. If you
believe what the people say thereabouts, you'd think there was no sich
people on the face of the airth."
"That's jist because they don't know anything about them; and it's not
because they can't know them neither, for a Yankee is a varmint you can
nose anywhere. It must be that none ever travels in those parts--selling
their tin-kettles, and their wooden clocks, and all their notions."
"Oh, yes, they do. They make 'em in those parts. I know it by this same
reason, that I bought a lot myself from a house in Connecticut, a town
called Meriden, where they make almost nothing else but clocks--where
they make 'em by steam, and horse-power, and machinery, and will turn
you out a hundred or two to a minute."
The pedler had somewhat "overleaped his shoulders," as they phrase it in
the West, when his companion drew himself back over the blazing embers,
with a look of ill-concealed aversion, exclaiming, as he did so--
"Why, you ain't a Yankee, air you?"
The pedler was a special pleader in one sense of the word, and knew the
value of a technical distinction as well as his friend, Lawyer Pippin.
His reply was prompt and professional:--
"Why, no, I ain't a Yankee according to your idee. It's true, I was born
among them; but that, you know, don't make a man one on them?"
"No, to be sure not. Every man that's a freeman has a right to choose
what country he shall belong to. My dad was born in Ireland, yet he
always counted himself a full-blooded American."
The old man found a parallel in his father's nativity, which satisfied
himself of the legitimacy of the ground taken by the pedler, and helped
the latter out of his difficulty.
"But here's the whiskey standing by us all the time, waiting patiently
to be drunk. Here, Nick Snell, boy, take your hands out of your
breeches-pocket, and run down with the calabash to the branch. The water
is pretty good thar, I reckon; and, strannger, after we've taken a sup,
we'll eat a bite, and then lie down. It's high time, I reckon, that we
do so."
It was in his progress to the branch that Ralph Colleton came upon this
member of the family.
Nick Snell was no genius, and did not readily reply to the passing
inquiry which was put to him by the youth, who advanced upon the main
party while the dialogue between the pedler and the wagoner was in full
gust. They started, as if by common consent, to their feet, as his
horse's tread smote upon their ears; but, satisfied with the appearance
of a single man, and witnessing the jaded condition of his steed, they
were content to invite him to partake with them of the rude cheer which
the good-woman was now busied in setting before him.
The hoe-cakes and bacon were smoking finely, and the fatigue of the
youth engaged his senses, with no unwillingness on their part, to detect
a most savory attraction in the assault which they made upon his sight
and nostrils alike. He waited not for a second invitation, but in a few
moments--having first stripped his horse, and put the saddle, by
direction of the emigrant, into his wagon--he threw himself beside them
upon the ground, and joined readily and heartily in the consumption of
the goodly edibles which were spread out before them.
They had not been long at this game, when a couple of fine watch-dogs
which were in the camp, guarding the baggage, gave the alarm, and the
whole party was on the alert, with sharp eye and cocked rifle. They
commenced a survey, and at some distance could hear the tread of
horsemen, seemingly on the approach. The banditti, of which we have
already spoken, were well known to the emigrant, and he had already to
complain of divers injuries at their hands. It is not, therefore, matter
of surprise, that he should place his sentinels, and prepare even for
the most audacious attack.
He had scarcely made this disposition of his forces, which exhibited
them to the best advantage, when the strangers made their appearance.
They rode cautiously around, without approaching the defences
sufficiently nigh to occasion strife, but evidently having for their
object originally an attack upon the wayfarer. At length, one of the
party, which consisted of six persons, now came forward, and, with a
friendly tone of voice, bade them good-evening in a manner which seemed
to indicate a desire to be upon a footing of the most amiable sort with
them. The old man answered dryly, with some show of sarcastic
indifference in his speech--
"Ay, good evening enough, if the moon had not gone down, and if the
stars were out, that we might pick out the honest men from the rogues."
"What, are there rogues in these parts, then, old gentleman?" asked the
new-comer.
"Why do you ask me?" was the sturdy reply. "You ought to be able to say,
without going farther than your own pockets."
"Why, you are tough to-night, my old buck," was the somewhat crabbed
speech of the visiter.
"You'll find me troublesome, too, Mr. Nightwalker: so take good counsel,
and be off while you've whole bones, or I'll tumble you now in half a
minute from your crittur, and give you a sharp supper of pine-knots."
"Well, that wouldn't be altogether kind on your part, old fellow, and I
mightn't be willing to let you; but, as you seem not disposed to be
civil, I suppose the best thing I can do is to be off."
"Ay, ay, be off. You get nothing out of us; and we've no shot that we
want to throw away. Leave you alone, and Jack Ketch will save us shot."
"Ha, ha!" exclaimed the outlier, in concert, and from the deeper
emphasis which he gave it, in chorus to the laughter which followed,
among the party, the dry expression of the old man's humor--
"Ha, ha! old boy--you have the swing of it to-night," continued the
visiter, as he rode off to his companions; "but, if you don't mind, we
shall smoke you before you get into Alabam!"
The robber rejoined his companions, and a sort of council for
deliberation was determined upon among them.
"How now, Lambert! you have been at dead fault," was his sudden address,
as he returned, to one of the party. "You assured me that old Snell and
his two sons were the whole force that he carried, while I find two
stout, able-bodied men besides, all well armed, and ready for the
attack. The old woman, too, standing with the gridiron in her fists, is
equal of herself to any two men, hand to hand."
Lambert, a short, sly, dogged little personage, endeavored to account
for the error, if such it was--"but he was sure, that at starting, there
were but three--they must have have had company join them since. Did the
lieutenant make out the appearance of the others?"
"I did," said the officer in command, "and, to say truth, they do not
seem to be of the old fellow's party. They must have come upon him since
the night. But how came you, Lambert, to neglect sawing the axle? You
had time enough when it stood in the farmyard last night, and you were
about it a full hour. The wagon stands as stoutly on its all-fours as
the first day it was built."
"I did that, sir, and did it, I thought, to the very mark. I calculated
to leave enough solid to bear them to the night, when in our circuit we
should come among them just in time to finish the business. The wood is
stronger, perhaps, than I took it to be, but it won't hold out longer
than to-morrow, I'm certain, when, if we watch, we can take our way with
them."
"Well, I hope so, and we must watch them, for it won't do to let the old
fellow escape. He has, I know, a matter of three or four hundred hard
dollars in his possession, to buy lands in Mississippi, and it's a pity
to let so much good money go out of the state."
"But why may we not set upon them now?" inquired one of the youngest of
the party.
"For a very good reason, Briggs--they are armed, ready, and nearly equal
in number to ourselves; and though I doubt not we should be able to ride
over them, yet I am not willing to leave one or more of us behind.
Besides, if we keep the look-out to-morrow, as we shall, we can settle
the business without any such risk."
This being the determination, the robbers, thus disappointed of their
game, were nevertheless in better humor than might have been well
expected; but such men are philosophers, and their very recklessness of
human life is in some respects the result of a due estimate of its
vicissitudes. They rode on their way laughing at the sturdy bluntness of
the old wagoner, which their leader, of whom we have already heard under
the name of Dillon, related to them at large. With a whoop and halloo,
they cheered the travellers as they rode by, but at some distance from,
the encampment. The tenants of the encampment, thus strangely but
fortunately thrown together, having first seen that everything was
quiet, took their severally assigned places, and laid themselves down
for repose. The pedler contenting himself with guessing that "them 'ere
chaps did not make no great deal by that speculation."