  Produced by Al Haines. [image] Cover art [image] BLACK HAWK RESCUING GILBERT'S FATHER AND MOTHER. PAGE THE ROMANCE OF GILBERT HOLMES AN HISTORICAL NOVEL BY MARSHALL MONROE KIRKMAN AUTHOR OF "THE SCIENCE OF RAILWAYS," IN TWELVE VOLUMES, THE WORLD RAILWAY PUBLISHING COMPANY COPYRIGHT 1900 All rights reserved SEVENTEENTH EDITION DEDICATION THE WRITING OF THIS BOOK HAVING BEEN TO ME WHOLLY M. M. KIRKMAN LARCHMERE, JULY 10, 1900 CONTENTS CHAPTER
CHAPTER I A SWEET LADY The crowding and haste of other days no longer stirred the great wharf at New Orleans, and steamboats did not now as then struggle for place or preferment, but lay apart, a melancholy picture of the changing fortunes of carriers and the fluctuations of our country's commerce. On the wide expanse, once piled high with goods, only scattered packages lay, and these hid away under grimy coverings, like corpses awaiting burial. About the boat I sought, the tumult of the shipping ebbed and flowed, and to one side the great city lay as if deserted, or asleep under the hot afternoon sun. Close by, and near the river's edge, a procession of convicts came on, winding in and out amid sacks of coffee and bales of cotton, sad and noiseless, as specters might have marched. On either side armed men, alert and watchful, kept pace, a part of the melancholy show. Stripes encompassed the bodies of the convicts, as serpents might loosely coil themselves; but about the guards the stripes ran up and down—to the looker-on there was no other difference. Back of this procession of doomed men and as if threatening it, a herd of mules, half wild and frantic with fear, dashed here and there seeking a way out. About them, and in guardianship, a burly negro, black as night, rode hither and thither, headlong, wheeling and circling, like a Numidian of old, stopping the rush here and cutting it off there—not hurriedly, but at the last moment, as if craving excitement and the admiration his horsemanship elicited. When it seemed to those who looked as if he had lost control over the half-crazed brutes, his fierce cry and the crack of his great whip stayed the frightened animals, and, wheeling, the headlong race began afresh. On board the vessel, room and clean beds awaited these creatures; but for the marching convicts, fortunate he who found a bale or box upon which to lay his sorrowing head. Afterward, amid the swamps of Louisiana, the animals will live, sleek and fat; but the men of sin, less fortunate, will find graves in the shadows of the moss-grown oaks, or, returning, a place in some noisy alms-house, there to eke out their lives with shrunken frames and despairing hearts! This, however, in passing, and not in any way to judge the acts of men, but that I may pick up the beginning of my story, which in no wise concerns itself with such serious things, but is a tale of love and life in the new country, and nothing more. From the quarter-deck passengers watched the busy scene, and among them one face gentler and fairer than the others. I, glancing up, thought it the most beautiful I had ever beheld, but looking, saw it only for a moment, and this as the convicts marching past were swallowed in the body of the great vessel. An angel grieving over the lost and despairing in life could not, I thought, have looked down on the world with more compassionate pity. Of delay in loading there was none, or if some lull occurred, the negroes, losing all care, threw down their burdens, and flinging themselves on their knees, fell to playing "craps" as children play at marbles; this vehemently and with noisy contention, snapping their fingers as the dice flew from their trembling hands, each as he threw crying some inarticulate word of menace or entreaty to the goddess of good luck. Finally, when it was an hour past the time of leaving, and the wharf was deserted save by groups of waiting negroes, the bell rang its note of warning, and I, hastening on board, glanced upward, and doing so, saw again the face of the beautiful lady, but now less sorrowing than at first. Backing into the stream amidst the ringing of bells and the splash of the great wheel, we passed the white city with ever-increasing speed as the sun, far to the west, tipped the buildings and shipping with a golden hue. Later, and as the night closed in cool and starlit, those who watched could yet see some glimpse of the city's lights far down on the edge of the horizon; but with this passing, no place save the trio of hill-clad cities on the western shore of the Great River met our view until we reached the landing-place at Memphis. At the time of which I write spring floods filled the deep basin of the Mississippi to overflowing, so that the mighty stream, ever dark and sinister in its lower stretches, was never more cruel or repellent. Its built-up banks, tipped with foam and fast crumbling from the overflow, offered at many points such slight resistance to the conflicting currents as they swept back and forth in the windings of the river that a breath only seemed needed to sweep them away. As if to add some stress of tragedy to the scene, armed men patrolled the western shore, warning us away with angry cries when we sought to land, lest the wash of the boat should overcome the weakened dikes, and so engulf the villages and wide plantations that lay behind. At many points the waste of water spread unchecked as far as the eye could penetrate the tangled forest, and at other places, eating into the yielding banks, turbulent bays were formed, in which vast whirlpools circled. Into these, trees toppled and fell as the banks gave way, to be sucked down into the murky water, so that we could get no glimpse of them afterward as we watched from the boat's side. In all this, how strange a contrast! For in the far north golden sands form the bed and rocky shores the borders of the mighty stream. From whatever point one surveys the great river, however, whether north or south or midway in its course, its aspect invites reflection and romantic thoughts, for throughout its length it is ever babbling and full of mystery and change, having a story to tell, had it the time; but evasive, as if in play, it hurries on with ripple of expectancy, beneath the shadows of overhanging trees and amid projecting roots and grasses, glowing with reflected light, to its final ending in the great gulf. How like, one sees, is it to the lives of men and their affairs. Springing up in obscurity amid limpid springs in tranquil depths, far off, feeble and uncertain of course, it gains strength, like childhood, pushing on through opening vistas and enlivening prospects to its full estate. Thence, faster and faster, to where the waters grow dark and yellow and uncertain of temper, but still onward to the end, where, amid somber shadows and pendent reeds, in the ooze of the slimy earth, its waters are lost in the wide expanse, as men are swallowed up in eternity. Of its tragedies of men and women that have come and gone leaving no trace, who shall tell! Of that race, too, which on its silent shores in ages long gone by came into life, was nurtured, lived, grew old, and was lost, as if it had not been, we know nothing, nor ever will. Nor of that later people, whose warriors for uncounted centuries disturbed the solitude with their fierce cries or quenched their death-rattle in the depths of its silent waters. Here, amidst bordering forests and far-reaching plains, they passed their savage life as Nature formed them, chanting amid circling bays and quiet dells their plaintive love-songs, or listening to the requiem of the rustling leaves and murmuring waters when death at last confronted them. They, too, have gone, following as in a procession of stricken men, leaving no trace as we come on, doomed as they were. For as others have gone, we shall go, and in the end as in the beginning, the valleys of the great river will echo no sound save the ripple of its waters and the moan of the wind in the trees as in primeval days. Along our course the great river plowed its unobstructed way through rich alluvial lands, bordered with forests and far-reaching plantations. On the edges of these last, hamlets clustered, and about them children played, while men and women watched the angry waters with bated breath. At spots far apart, landing-places were marked by lonesome cabins, and here, in the water-soaked bank, our boat poked its nose, and was held as in a vise by the soft receptive clay. At other places, warned away, we anchored at a distance, transferring our load to smaller crafts, or passed on to await a more favorable hour. Of danger there was none, or if at night the timid held their breath when the sharp sound of the bell caused the great wheel to stop as if stricken with death, they breathed more freely when the obstruction, crashing against the bottom of the boat, passed on and we were safe. Or if at times the tumbling waters and swift converging currents threatened us, the watchful pilots steered us clear, and we saw the danger from afar, and so paid little heed. Thus waiting, some read or slept or played, while others watched the sea-gulls as they flew back and forth across the foam of the flying wheel, searching for particles of food as sharks are said to do at sea. Not meeting with accident of any kind, the more companionable among the passengers soon set themselves to form the acquaintance of those about them, and in this way, and happily, I was brought in contact with Gilbert Holmes. More fortunate still, I thought, he proved to be the companion of the beautiful lady I had seen looking down in pity on the marching convicts as I came on board. Strangely enough—but not strangely either, for such things are often noticed—he resembled her as men may resemble women. Not much alike, but as they will, without knowing it, take on some part of the features or gentle sweetness of these dear companions of their lives. Mr. Holmes was reaching on to old age, but youthful in face and erect of form and buoyant as if still in the vigor of manhood. Running through his slow speech and mirrored in the mild complaisance of his eyes there were ever present the melodies of the past, the remembrance of what had been. This as we often see in men of affairs who have mixed much in the world's strife, but are no longer concerned in its turmoil or ambitious ends. In his look and speech there was, however, still a pleasant note of interest, as if life had not tired him, nor his concern in its affairs been dulled by usage or infirmity of temper; but while he listened to what was said or took note of what went on about him, it was plain to every one that he lived only in the presence and reflection of his loving wife. She, on her part, it was also clear, had little thought of anything but her husband, her eyes following him with tender concern, as if in him all her life's interests were centered. The great affection these two bore each other was soon discerned by every one, and at once elicited that kind and inquisitive interest which men and women are said ever to feel for those who truly love. Of her age I could form no idea, for life had left no trace of care on her beautiful face, and her eyes still showed in their placid depths the luster of youth and the tranquil calm of a loving and trustful heart. Her mouth, soft in outline and of engaging sweetness, ever led me to speculate anew as to which is the more attractive, the eyes or the mouth of women; but this, I know, others have puzzled over before me, and will to the end of time. Her soft speech and gentle manners quickly made every one her slave, the officers of the boat not less than others; and though harassed by the cares and perplexities of the journey, they lost no excuse or opportunity to come within the radiance of her gentle presence. This tribute of admiration that men ever pay, and with delight, to queenly women, one and all yielded, and gladly, to this sweet-faced lady. Thus the days passed, and they were to me a new experience of life and its possibilities. A vision of love, burning on undimmed through years of health and sweet contentment to the very end. Happy association! Tranquil picture of life! It fades not from me now, but grows with each recurring day, so that I conjure it up anew and with greater interest than before when, in the turmoil of affairs, my mind finds need of rest or some sweet solace of comfort. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes received me kindly from the very first, and this, it appeared, because of a resemblance they saw in me to a son lost to them long before at Lookout Mountain in the great Civil War. This resemblance and a certain reverent homage I paid them, which I did not seek to hide, caused them to take me trustfully and wholly within the influence of their lives; and this to my great happiness and good fortune then and now. Mr. Holmes, or Gilbert, as she called him when not using some term of endearment, which she generally did, had passed his life in the West, as the country about the Mississippi Valley was called in his youth. He was fond of telling of the settlement of this new country and the people who had been connected with its early history, and in this was led on by his sweet wife. Into these accounts were interwoven glimpses of his own life, so that I was led to ask him more about himself, and particularly his early adventures, which his wife was most fond of having him recall. This I did at first, I will confess, not so much out of any great interest as that I might find excuse for being the more in his presence and that of his dear lady. After a day thus passed, I wrote out at night what he had recounted. Not at the beginning with any purpose, but because I ever had a peculiar knack in this direction, being designed, I think, from the first to be a clerk or something of that kind, and nothing more. However, lest I should transgress some law of good manners, I after a while informed Mr. Holmes of what I was doing. This, I saw, did not meet his entire approval, though he gave no expression to his thoughts save a look of surprise; but Mrs. Holmes, upon hearing it, was greatly pleased, and thereafter lost no opportunity to aid me in my efforts to draw from him the particulars of his early life. In this, however, we were never wholly successful, because of his reluctance to speak of himself; but as she seemed to know every incident of his career and to treasure it as a sweet memory, when he halted or sought to break the story, she would put her hand on his, and taking up the narrative go on, perhaps, until we parted for the night. These interruptions were greatly to his liking, it was clear, for he loved above all things to listen to her voice; and I continually detected him at such times looking at her with eyes half of remonstrance at what she told, but altogether full of affection for her and her engaging ways. By this the reader will see—and I am glad to make it plain to him—that while the life of Gilbert Holmes seems to be related by himself, it was in many parts—and the most interesting parts, I think—told by his wife as she sat by his side with her hand clasping his. Cherished memory! Sweet tale of love and adventure sweetly told! Surely I shall never know anything so beautiful again. Our journey too quickly over, cut short the account of Mr. Holmes's life, and this to my sorrow, and so I said. "You have heard but a part, and that not the most entertaining, you would think, could you hear all," Mrs. Holmes answered; "for among other things he has been a soldier in two of his country's wars, and in the last a general," she added, with a fond look at her husband. "I am sure his life must have been full to the brim," I answered. "Yes, and well you may be; but it is his early life that interests me most, and the part he loves best to recall. Nor of this have you heard the half—the dear, soft-hearted, modest man!" she answered, taking his face in both her hands and kissing him as women will those they greatly love. Afterward, when I had written out the story and came to ask Mr. Holmes's permission to put it in print, I should by no means have succeeded except for the intercession of his sweet wife, who rightly believed the world could never know too much of so good and honest a gentleman. "Surely, Gilbert, there is nothing in it you would not have told, and it will please me more than I can tell if you will let him have his way in this," the dear lady remonstrated; and he, saying nothing, assented, as he did to everything she proposed. I have had much inclination to prolong the story, but this I have restrained, lest it prove tiresome; though how that could be I cannot see. In the telling I shall follow on with the reader, but more slowly, it being to me worthy of greater regard than he can give it; and this because in every word I shall detect a presence or hear again voices that will be dear to me forever. This pleasure the reader cannot share, nor see as I shall the loving couple, first one and then the other, take up the story on this page and on that as, in the telling, some halt or embarrassment of speech clogs the other's utterance. [image] Chapter I tailpiece CHAPTER II GILBERT HOLMES'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF I was born on the borders of a rolling prairie in the great state of Illinois, near the spot where the Big and Little Sandy mingle their shallow waters to form the wandering Mauvaise Terre. This last, hesitating long as to the course it would pursue, or indeed whether it would move at all or not, finally making up its mind, takes its way to the west, there at last to be swallowed up in the turbid waters of the Illinois. This in 1826, when the state was just born and men lived far apart, and wolves uttered their doleful cries beyond the sheepfold and in the edges of the great forests at night and in the gray of the early morning. Of the county in which I was born, I am not sure, because of the uncertainty as to the boundary-lines in the early days, but this is not a matter of any account, as it in no wise concerns the subject of my story. My mother, for family reasons, wished I should be called Job, but dissuaded, though why I do not know, she named me Gilbert, after a gentleman of amiable disposition she had once known. This, she said, because she traced in me a resemblance to him in this important particular. "Did you ever see milder eyes or softer ways?" she would say aside to visitors, with an air of motherly pride, when I was scarce able to walk. When she was gone, those who treasured her memory said I resembled her; but it was only a faint reflection of her presence, such as we often see in children, for of all women she was the most beautiful in the world save one. As a child I was shy, and because of it, disposed to be much alone; and to this day I love above everything else to mount my horse, and leaving the streets and public highways, seek out the nooks and restful corners of the cool and silent country. This love of being alone—if one can ever be said to be alone in the country—has not in any way lessened my liking for my fellow-men nor my delight in their company, but has served rather as a gentle antidote to the cares and vexations of an otherwise busy life. As a youth I was rosy-cheeked and inclined to be dull; but this is said ever to be the case with children having a fine color. Why this should be so, if it is indeed true, I leave to those versed in such things, for I can see no reason for it whatever. I loved to play, but not to study and because of these opposites, so conflicting and inopportune, I ever found it hard to keep up with my class in school. Reading I liked, but not arithmetic, while grammar made my head ache, and in spelling I tripped on the simplest words. It often fell out, therefore, that when the other children piled their books on the rude benches in the cool of the afternoon, and went their way with shouts and laughter I settled down to try again. At such times the teacher would sit back in her chair on the little platform and scowl clown on me in gloomy discontent, tapping the desk to relieve her angry feelings. "You little beast!" she would sometimes say when thus cheated of her afternoon outing, "you are not half so stupid as you seem, though you are dull enough, goodness knows. You could learn if you wanted to, but you would rather watch the girls or look out of the windows than study—the more shame to you." This was true enough as regards the girls, I know, but I hated her for all that; only I hated myself still more. As I grew in years my dullness so preyed upon me that in all my reflections on the great and desirable things in life. Smartness always stood foremost and the best of all. My affliction made me still more shy, until in time what was at first only a trait, became a habit, and one that I have never been able to quite throw off, though the vicissitudes of life and much intercourse with men have somewhat lessened its embarrassments. While on this subject I may say, going to the other extreme, that neither my dear wife nor my children will ever admit that I could have been dull in my youth, and at this I smile and even make believe; but they know little of human nature, and their skepticism only proves their love. For their disbelief grows out of the knowledge that in middle life I was able to take up whatever interested me and carry it forward to a more or less successful conclusion. This facility, however, came too late to enliven my childhood, and did not arise so much from any talent I possessed as from experience and reflection—things that come to all of us with mature years. My amiability in youth, coupled with my lack of smartness, caused me to be much set upon by boys more precocious than I, and, in consequence, the quiet of my life was often rudely disturbed. For it is only truth to say that while my eyes may have been mild and my manner soft, I really had a very high temper if much stress was put upon it. Then, going to the other extreme, no situation of peril could prevent its blazing forth. At such times my rage, rising higher and higher, like a prairie fire, grew with what it fed upon, only to die away finally of shame or for want of something to keep it alive. These outbreaks occasioned me much self-abasement, and I would often cry out in agony at the excess of my passions, but without much if any good coming from it that I could see. Such temper was unknown to my early youth, or maybe it only lay dormant. For afterward, when fortune threw me, a stripling, into the world, I was so crowded and jostled about, as the unprotected are apt to be in such cases—and generally to their good—that from being mild and gentle, I became as fierce and intractable as a wild beast. However, I now look back upon this period with a sense of thankfulness that I did not become so wedded to its excesses as not to be conscious in the end that I could not thus get on in the world, but that sooner or later I should have it arrayed solidly against me. With the aid of such reflections and other help, and the fact that I was inclined to be affectionate if circumstances favored, I was in time able to resume some part of my old cheerfulness of manner. This, however, I believe, that to those who were kind to me, and in every case to those who were weak, I was never aught but gentle. For certainly, to the unfortunate my heart has ever gone out in sympathy; but how much of this feeling has been due in later years to the trials of my youth and how much to natural love of my kind, I cannot tell. When young my health was a source of anxiety to my mother, and after I lost her, to those who interested themselves in my affairs, but without any great reason, I have always thought. As a young man my complexion was fair and my height not above the medium, but because of my active life I appeared somewhat taller than I really was. In face, my nose was aquiline, and much too delicate to buffet the world successfully, it was said by those wise in such matters. Of my mouth, it was full, and my chin inclined to be pointed rather than heavy. This last, the village phrenologist said, denoted a subtle disposition; but in this I think he was mistaken, though I may say that I ever possessed that peculiar sense which leads animals and some men to the adoption of measures necessary to their preservation, and this without their being conscious of its exercise. This trait is, however, an instinct, and not one of calculation. In great men and in large affairs something akin to it, but of a higher order, is called Apprehension. Thus the great foresee what is to happen, and doing so, turn it to their advantage. My mother said my mouth indicated a love of artistic things, and in this she was clearly right so far as her own sex was concerned. For I have always held women in such high esteem that the least among them have ever commanded my love and respect. As a lad there was not a blithe, sweet-eyed girl who pored over her lessons in the log schoolhouse by the forest stream, about which my early recollections cluster, whom I did not look upon as a divinity. This feeling of love and respect for the dainty companions of my youth has ever been my conception of women, and now, when no longer young, I look upon them as angels sent to eke out our life after it has been robbed of the delusions of youth. This feeling men share in common, and it is due to contrast, and more particularly to woman's superior delicacy of mind and heart, and also to something else, I cannot tell what. For she is and ever will be an unfathomable mystery to us, try as we may to understand her. This account of myself I have striven to make as favorable as I can, and if it is partial, you will attribute it to pride, and not to vanity. For while all men may be proud, no one should be vain, and the first for the reason that it is not altogether conscience or the love of right that keeps men from wrong. Pride is a great factor in such matters, and so far as that is true this brittle cactus, so unjustly reviled by the thoughtless, should be fertilized according to our needs. Like all men born to live in the country, I have ever had the habit of trusting fair-spoken men. This has resulted to my disadvantage many times, but on the whole I have not been the loser by it. For the goose is bound to be plucked, and is none the worse for it in the end, while the feathers the rogue scatters along his path serve in some measure to indicate his whereabouts afterward to the trusting and simple-minded. In my youth I was disregardful of money, and thus early acquired credit for generosity that did not belong to me. Because of this I have always believed that merit in giving ought to attach only to those who do so with groans and contractions of the heartstrings. For such to give is real generosity, and in this regard it is a subject of gratitude to me, as it must be to all improvident men, that with the lapse of years and the coming on of old age, no untoward circumstance of poverty has caused me to regret any foolish thing I may have done in disregard of matters relating to money; and about the possession of this last there exists much misunderstanding, I have always thought. For I must say, that for the life of me I have never been able to discover that money is more prized among the trading-people with whom my life has been thrown than among the better bred of other communities. In whomsoever wealth dwells, to that person the social peacock and the common barnyard fowl alike droop their crests in respectful and distant salutation. Love of property is innate in man, and to that love we may trace most of the blessings we have above those of common savages. About this, however, men differ; but all agree that those who have little defer of their own accord to those who have more, and that so long as men have vigor and the hope of life their greed of property never ceases to grow. In my own case, lack of skill in getting and holding has been said by those who professed to understand such matters to be clearly indicated by my temperament. This prediction may have been true, though it has always been a conviction with me that if I had devoted myself to making money with proper spirit I might have been fairly successful. In this, however, I may be vain without reason, but in order to acquire and keep, one's thoughts, it is clear, must dwell much upon such subjects. Out of this concentration comes the gift of acquiring and holding, the genius of the money-getter. Such occupation of one's life many esteem uneventful and void of interest, but I am assured that it is more intense than the habit of gambling or the love of women; indeed, a passion so great that it eats up all others, and in its intensity is worthy to rank with the fanaticism of martyrs, the ambition of soldiers, the fierce egotism of artists, or the dry nervous disorder of writers. CHAPTER III THE WRECK My father was a most kind and lovable man, and while he owned and cultivated a farm, he was a trader, and nothing else. The farm was a dream of my mother's, a vision of her girlhood, never fulfilled. He bought and sold cattle, and it was said could tell the weight of an ox by merely looking at it, so that his judgment in such matters was accepted everywhere without question by buyer and seller alike. One year, I remember, because of a great murrain breaking out among the cattle in the West, he turned his attention to swine, buying all there were in the country, and this to the great discomfiture of other dealers, who would not pay the price he offered. Afterward he drove them to market, where they were sold at a considerable advance, to the great benefit of all concerned. This venture was much thought of by those who profited by the enterprise, and added to the high esteem in which he was already held by the community generally. He did not, however, pursue the matter further, but returned the next year to his former occupation, to the great regret of his late patrons and the no less great satisfaction of those who made a business of buying and selling hogs. Winter and summer, in sunshine and storm, he traversed the country far and near, buying and selling cattle. On occasion, however, if opportunity offered, he traded in other things; but such dealings were aside and in the nature of perquisites, which he lavished on my mother or gave to the poor, of whom there were great numbers in the new country. When, from time to time; he had exhausted his money and credit and the market was right, he was in the habit of collecting his herds at some central place and driving them across the country, usually to St. Louis, that city being then as now a market of importance and noted, as it is to-day, for the enterprise and high character of its merchants. The life my father led was one of hardship and constant danger, the newness of the country and the lawlessness that prevailed making travel dangerous and life insecure. Such things, however, did not deter him; and by repeating his venture many times successfully, it came about at last that he was thought to be among the richest men in the country. This glimpse of fortune, so alluring, proved not to be lasting, and later appeared to have visited us merely that the reverse of the picture might be the more forbidding. Esteemed a harbinger of greater things in store, it vanished in a moment to return no more. In the autumn that I reached my tenth year my father's purchases were greater than ever before, embracing all his own resources and those of his neighbors and friends. For these last ever pressed upon him in this way, that they might share in his good fortune—and willingly enough upon his part, for he was in all things a most considerate and generous man. At last, collecting all his herds, he drove them by easy stages across the country to St. Louis, where he found a market favorable for their sale, as he had thought. This venture consummated the access of fortune he looked forward to, and assured him thereafter ease and quietude of life and the lasting comfort of those who were dear to him. The goal so many seek, and oftentimes fruitlessly, he had thus early in life fairly and honorably attained. Closing up his affairs with all haste, he collected the proceeds of his venture, and with his little army of retainers set out on his return home. My mother, as had often been the case before, was one of the party, and this that she might be with her husband, his prolonged absences from home being the one source of unhappiness in her married life. For they were in all things lovers, as at first; and starting out on our homeward journey no premonition of coming misfortune disturbed their happiness or clouded the bright hopes they had of the future. Pursuing our way leisurely northward—for through my mother's indulgent love I had been permitted to accompany her—we came, after a wide detour which my father's affairs caused him to make, to the ferry where we were to cross the Great River into Illinois. This spot was one not easily forgotten, its beauty and solitude being such as to awaken to the full one's love of the romantic and picturesque in country life. On the western shore a fringe of graceful trees hung far over the margin of the river, and on the other side wild flowers and verdant grasses covered the valley that sloped back to the hills upon which a forest loomed. Nature, ever dainty in her handicraft, had encompassed the picture, as she never fails to do, with a graceful and appropriate setting. Some distance below the crossing, and as if to add piquancy to the scene, we could plainly discern the foam of the great rapids that there interrupted the flow of the river, but far away, and purposely, to avoid the danger of travelers being drawn into its turbulent waters. In other respects my father thought the ferry unwisely placed, because of the contracted channel and swift-running current. No accident, however, had ever occurred; and while the water was high at the time of which I speak, the prospect as we stood waiting on the shore was thought to be exhilarating rather than dangerous. Looking forward to the passage as a pleasant diversion, the party rode onto the boat, commenting with cheerful gayety on the river and the wide expanse of the other shore, with its background of trees and projecting clouds. These last added greatly to the beauty and grandeur of the scene, and that they foretold danger in any way we did not dream. Such delusions, however, ever form a part of the destiny of men. The things that menace us we willfully disregard in the soft pleasure of idle talk, or lose sight of in the desultory fancies of the moment. When the boat upon which we were embarked had left the shore, it was discovered, all too late, that the man in charge was far gone in drink and altogether stupid, so as not to be able to perform his duties except in a merely mechanical way. However, to turn about was impossible, the cumbrous craft being scarcely able to go forward in the turbulent current. Moreover, the difficulties of the situation appeared not to be great, and the necessity of skill on the part of the attendant a matter of little or no account; and so it would have been in most cases, but not now, as it appeared afterward. Our craft was quaint of build in the extreme, and one not to be forgotten. In length it was some forty feet and in width perhaps a third as much. On either side a wheel projected beyond the boat, and on the inner axle a house perched in which a horse was hidden. From a distance the little craft resembled a crippled waterfowl, which, with half-closed wings, sought to rise above the stream, but at best was only able to agitate the waters in its struggle to get on. Our progress was slow and at times doubtful, the lurching of the boat oftentimes lifting the wheels clear of the water. Of this, however, we thought little, as it was in no wise attended with danger of any kind. Such was the prospect at the moment, and in the long years that have since intervened no detail of the little group as it stood huddled together looking out on the dark river has faded from my memory, or ever will. As we neared the middle of the stream, the storm which had shown above the hills, and which we had so little regarded, burst upon us with the force of a tornado. At once all was confusion and uproar, the affrighted animals rushing hither and thither, tipping the boat this way and that as if it were a mere eggshell. Still we might have come safely to land, had not the boatman, bewildered by the uproar, lost even the semblance of habit, and failing to keep the bow resolutely to the wind, allowed it to drift hopelessly to one side. At this, and with scarcely an interval in which to cry "God help us!" the wind and waves, acting together, lifted the little craft high in the air, and holding it aloft for a moment as if in mockery, turned it bottom side up. Before this, and as the storm arose, my father and mother stood at the bow of the boat, and happily for me I had not dismounted, but pushing to a place beside them, awaited, childlike, the coming shore. When the hurricane struck us I remember to have laughed, for storms have ever had an attraction for me, and to this day nothing gives me greater pleasure than to listen to the wind as it sweeps through the trees or spends its strength on whatever object impedes its course. I had no thought of danger, else why this great boat which seemed capable of withstanding any strain? My mother's fears and my father's anxious face, however, quickly conveyed to me some sense of the peril that threatened us. Nevertheless, the music of the tempest and the fitful gusts of rain and spray that beat in my face would have drowned all thought of danger, had not my mother's shrill cry, rising above the roar of the storm and calling my name, have startled me out of myself; and now, although half a century has come and gone, I see her, as then, standing by my father's side, holding her habit with one hand and clinging to him with the other, her paleface directed toward mine in an agony of supplication and fear. As I looked, her lips moved in prayer, as if in this way she would avert the danger that threatened those she loved. The sight brought me to my senses, and rising in my saddle, I waved my hand, and with a look sought to allay or lessen her fears. At this her face relaxed and tears darkened her eyes, as if some part of her prayer was already answered. Oh, blessed, fitful vision of a being and form divine! a glance only, but everyway sufficient for life's brief span! As the storm increased in violence, the wind and waves tossed our boat here and there as if it were but a feather's weight. At last, when it was plain that the vessel was about to take its final plunge, I saw my father grasp my mother's hand and drag her to the edge of the boat, crying: "Quick, Margaret, for your life!" Calling to me to cling to my horse and give him free rein, he lifted the great whip he carried and gave the animal a mighty stroke across the back. At this the horse, startled out of himself, sprang forward, clearing the vessel's side at a bound, and thus in a second I found myself submerged in the angry waters. Coming to the surface, I saw my father a few feet away, supporting my mother, and now, strange sight! she seemed to have no fear whatever—at least her face gave no sign of it; but this was not out of the ordinary, for she was always trusting and womanlike, believing that in his company no harm could come to her. So that now, when the fierce waters swept over her, she clung about his neck with the same confidence, I must believe, that she had felt when he led her to the altar. For a moment we stayed together, but not longer; and as my pony straightened out in the struggle to reach the shore, I called back: "I'm all right, pap; hold onto mother, and I'll soon bring you help!" Oh, hopeful, evanescent spirit of youth! To you naught is impossible or beyond God's power to help. Of our companions who struggled with despairing cries in vain effort to free themselves from the dreadful wreck, what shall I say except to pray God that I may be spared from ever seeing or hearing anything so pitiful again. |
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